


karma come over, lean on my shoulder

by serpensortiaqueer



Series: Diego/Klaus | but good things are coming to me [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Play, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Bratting, Dom/sub, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, Intercrural Sex, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Little Space, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Past Abuse, Pet Names, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Punishment, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sibling Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpensortiaqueer/pseuds/serpensortiaqueer
Summary: “‘Ego always follows through,” Klaus mumbles, beginning to recite Diego’s own words back to him, “Three unheeded warnings mean a punishment. It’s not because I’m bad, but-but I made some poor decisions and you have to help me to remember how to behave.”“Correct, little one. You’re so clever, I hope you know that. Diego thinks so, even when he has to help you."Snapshots of a D/s relationship that keeps Klaus safe and helps him to grow. A sequel toI got myself in a mess and without you I'm in more.





	1. the negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be wholly honest and say I'm not sure how to fit this into the canon timeline, so I'm sort of ignoring it. Which is lazy, I know! Feel free to imagine that Five's squirrelled away somewhere figuring it all out but hitting a slight delay, or the apocalypse simply is not nigh. 
> 
> The apocalypse was grumpy and has been put down for a nap?
> 
> Title from _Years & Years'_ Karma.
> 
> Oh, and while I'm here, feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://serpensortiaqueer.tumblr.com).

“Open?” Klaus produces a cherry lollipop from somewhere on his person and thrusts it blindly towards Diego, who has given up questioning these sort of things. Perhaps it’s a latent power of Klaus’; the ability to materialise candy from thin air.

Together they are sprawled atop Diego’s boiler room bed, Klaus having happily slotted himself between Diego’s spread legs. Angled towards them, atop an old gym crate, is Diego’s most recent acquisition— a television set. It’s dated, but works well enough and is currently playing Clueless. Klaus’ choice, after his insistence that _although Keanu seems like the most lovely of men_ he couldn’t cope with The Matrix again, or indeed another chapter of John Wick. ( _He’s getting on my wick, ha._ ) Diego doesn’t quite trust him that it’s a classic, but Klaus has ways and means of getting his own way. Big eyes, for one. 

Still, it’s not all bad— Diego’s got Klaus’ sequinned purple vest rucked up so that he can pet idly at his brother’s warm belly and his nose is tucked into Klaus’ scruffy hair. It smells tropical, possibly of coconuts, “Do I get a please?” He prompts, despite the fact that he’s already digging his thumbnail into the lollipop’s wrapper.

“Oh, I suppose sooo. _Pretty please_?”

Once the lollipop’s in his mouth, Klaus takes to _click-clack_ ing it around his back molars and smacking his lips together loudly. Of course he does, because even the consumption of candy isn’t something he can do with any sort of subtly. Diego feels a burst of affection for it, _for fuck’s sake_ , he’s that far gone already. Klaus ‘Number Four’ Hargreeves has and will always be an absolute menace, and Diego loves for him it. 

He cuffs his big hand around the back of his brother’s neck and drops a kiss to the top of his head— “Hey, we still need to have that talk I mentioned. Do you think we could pause the movie?”

Klaus whines around his possibly magicked candy, wiggling with frustration. Diego doesn’t let himself think about what that does to his dick, it’s not the time. Plus, he’s just made Klaus grumpy. It’s just gotten to one of his most favourite parts of the movie, is the thing: Cher is looking killer in her neon yellow cardigan and slaying debate class. Klaus doesn’t quite have the complexion for the yellow, but thinks he could pull off a complimentary blue should he be called on for the counter argument.

“Please,” Diego murmurs, his theory being that the lower his tone, the more Klaus has to concentrate to hear him and thus the more likely he is to actually focus, “It’s like I said, if you’d like for us to continue this,” He gestures vaguely to _this_ , which is _them_ , their comfortably overlapping bodies, “there are some bits and pieces that we need to discuss.”

“Okay, but,” Klaus squirms again, this time until he’s sitting up and facing Diego. He pops the sucker from between his lips, waving it around like a wand as he hits the remote to pause the film, “If I listen and all that palaver, can we say it’s earned me a take-out? Pizza, perhaps?”

Diego rolls his eyes but it’s fond as ever, “I suppose so, yeah. You gotta get at least one veggie topping, though,” He concedes, gently catching a hold of Klaus’ wrist to keep both his sticky candy and him still (not trusting him not to get the candy lodged in Diego's bedsheets, or his own hair), “Have I got your attention, then?”

Klaus nods and manages to settle most of his wiggles in order to balance coltishly on his haunches, propping one hand under his chin and looking studiously interested in Diego. All big guileless eyes, lollipop stick dangling from his lip like James Dean’s cigarette. Despite his sass, he is good at giving Diego the time and attention he requests of him, which is an encouraging start. 

Now, somewhat unfortunately, it rests on Diego to get things going— which is easier said than done. Diego is all too aware of how likely his stutter is to make an appearance during ‘big’ conversations. Needs must, however. He rubs at the jut of Klaus’ wrist bone, mostly to distract himself, and pictures an itemised list of his points that he needs to make.

“What we d-did in the attic, Klaus…w-we probably shouldn’t have,” Is how he begins, and in retrospect, it’s a blunder. Immediately, Klaus makes a wounded noise and scrambles backwards. _Of course_ this was coming, of course, Diego would consider him a mistake, “No! No, Klaus, shush, listen,” Diego circles his brother’s wrist again, trying to keep control of his own rising anxiety so as not to spook Klaus any further, “I-I just mean, shush, listen to me. We shouldn’t have, without discussing it previously. It was dangerous of me to edge you into a such vulnerable place without even a traffic lights system in place.”

Diego’s eyes are sloe and soft and Klaus begins to calm at his words, rhythmically turning his lollipop in his mouth.

“You understand, sweetheart?” Diego asks, he imagines that Klaus does. From some of the inappropriate things Klaus has announced at the dinner table before, he must have, at some point, at least dabbled in kink. There had been mentions of ball gags at one point that had caused Luther to upset the gravy boat with a panicked elbow. 

“But you’re ‘Ego,” Is Klaus’ first response, spoken clumsily around the lollipop. Simple, sorted. “You are my big brother.”

Diego grins despite himself, “Well not quite, baby. Same birthday, same year, same second, remember?”

Klaus just shrugs off these trivial details and very much doesn’t let himself consider the ten months he gained in Vietnam, “Still my ‘Ego.”

_Okay_.

“I can be that, for sure, but what’s why we need to talk this through. I have questions, you know. Is it a bedroom situation only thing? Is it more than that? Are we talking some submission while I jack you off or…?”

“You jacked me off _real_ good,” Klaus sing-songs cheekily and _goddamnit_ , if Diego doesn’t feel himself blush at the compliment.

“Thanks,” He mumbles, thumbing again at Klaus’ wrist bone, “So, it is that then?”

The lollipop clearly _cracks_ against Klaus’ teeth and Diego winces for his poor enamel, “Umm, not entirely, no, I don’t think so,” He tugs his now empty lolly stick from his mouth and hands it to Diego ( _you deal with this_ ), “Like, I was messy and small and you stayed. You made me giggle when I was crying enough to drown both of us if you remember. I was flooding the place, you were building us a boat with your endless patience and your lovely hands, Noah over here.”

“Why would have I left?” Diego asks right away, confused enough without even touching on Four’s rambling biblical analogies, “Klaus, I was the reason for you being messy, if _you_ remember. I persuaded you to wet yourself.”

The both of them gulp at the same time, because yeah, okay, that was certainly a thing that had happened.

“That was real nice, too,” Klaus nods absently, “But people don’t always… You know. Want to deal with the… afterwards,” Hands now free to gesture, Klaus is elaborate, sculpting some of his more disastrous encounters in the air and leaving Diego to fill in the details of what sort of bastards had abandoned Klaus post-drop, alone and terrified, “ _Dirty_ boy, yes? Actually dirty boy, no.”

He looks so sad, simultaneously a baby and ancient all at once. It’s easy for Diego to block out his knowledge of how awfully Klaus has been abused by both the living and the dead when he’s bouncing about him on the bed, cherry lollipop in hand and green eyes glittering with mischief, but then he’s quietly honest and unassuming about it all and Diego finds his heart physically aching for him. That’s phrasing Diego’s heard before, but never had such a literal understanding of. 

“That’s a big part of it for me, Klaus. Aftercare, yeah? I’d want to give you that as much as I would orgasms. Orgasms, they’re secondary. You, you come first, for me. In _this_ , which isn’t quite a _this_ yes, but could be.”

Again, Klaus nods. It’s barely there, but with all of his attention trained on him, Diego just about catches it. The possibility that Diego is laying down for Klaus sounds like an offer of salvation when he’s been so lost for so long, so scared with it. He doesn’t quite believe himself deserving of any of it, but his whole body curls towards Diego with his craving for more, like a moth to a flame. He’s all fluttering smokey shadows and Diego is a beacon, bold and burning for him. 

“What was the ‘or’?” He whispers towards his lap where his hands at least have stilled, knotting themselves together so tightly that his knuckles have paled.

“Louder for me, sweetheart. What did you say?”

“What was the ‘or’? You said ‘or’ before.”

_Right_. “Well, it could be something more constant? Not just sexual, I mean. All-all of the time, lots of the time, I don’t know? Just, if you need a big brother to take care of you… w-when you’re feeling smaller? When you’re feeling stressed out? I’d… I’d like to try and do that for you,” Diego’s pulse is hammering away by the time he’s finished talking. He’s worried that he’s making next to no sense and hoping that he’s not massively misread the situation, overstepped any boundaries. He almost curses when he sees that Klaus is tearing up, but then he’s on him, gathering all of his long limbs up to cuddle in close and wiping his eyes briskly with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I like this ‘or’ option. That sounds just splendid. We’ll do that.”

Diego huffs out a laugh, “You are ridiculous, you know that? We’re not quite finished, though.”

“Oh?” Klaus arches back, all feline, to greet Diego with a quizzically arched eyebrow. His eyes still have a teary sheen though, “You sure?”

“I am,” Diego smooths back some errant tufts of Klaus’ hair, slips his thumb down to the tears collecting in the corner of his eyes, “Do you just want someone to rely on-“

“I want someone to buy me pizza, honestly.”

“Klaus! Listen to me. Focus, buddy. Do you want rules, consequences, a bedtime?” Diego continues, petting at Klaus as he speaks. For all of his lip, Klaus soaks up each casual little touch and cartoon hearts practically spring up in his eyes, “It was the letting go of some control, yeah? Someone else taking the burden on?” 

Klaus huffs and shrugs, becoming embarrassed if anything. That’s the truth of it, yes, but he doesn’t want Diego to think him irredeemably pathetic. Not that he hasn’t always been told that it’s the case— by Reginald, Luther, exes, by ghosts, by himself. _But Diego_ , he doesn’t want Diego to think that of him. His brother who, for all his stern words and impatiently offered advice, has always been his most reliable constant. Has seemed to see Klaus’ potential, the capabilities begging to bloom at his core. He’s tried to tend to them before, help them grow, and Klaus has let him down, time and time again. 

The thing is, Diego is just as doubting of himself. The lingering after-effects of Reggie’s A+ parenting, of course, and when Klaus goes quiet on him, his own panic stages a reappearance. Who is he, to assume that he can take on this role and fulfil it to any satisfactory degree? What suggests that he’s anymore capable than Klaus himself— this discussion, after all, is taking place in the boiler room of the gym he mops the blood splattered floors of.

“Look, if all of this is sounding unappealing, if it was actually a one-time thing and now I’m being a dick about it when you just wanted to watch like, Mean Girls or whatever and you’re trying to get me to shut up—”

“Clueless.”

“ _Clueless_. Right. Well, if that is the case—”

The look Klaus fixes his brother with next is one that suggests he’s pitying of Diego’s stupidity but adoring with it, too. The carton hearts would double in size, gain a sparkle. Diego isn’t sure how he manages to school his expression into that, but he somehow does it so well that Diego reads it instantly and blushes right down to his neck again.

“Diego, darling darling Diego, big brother mine. I brought the fucking rope _to you_.” He reminds him, with careful emphasis. 

“You brought the rope to me,” Diego intones, tongue thick in his mouth, “To me,” He repeats, finding Klaus’ hands and taking them in his, “Because you trust me to be that person for you?” 

Relieved that his point seems to have clicked, Klaus smiles— the up-turn of his lips almost giddy. Right, so they’re going to try again. He’s going to try again, to keep up his end of whatever bargain they strike.

To seal the deal, he dives in to kiss Diego with sugary, synthetic-cherry lips, tasting just like the cheap drugstore gloss he’d experimented with as a preteen, “Yes. I did. Now, can we get pepperoni and peppers?”

There’s still more for them to consider and discuss, but it’s likely pointless to try if Klaus is too hungry to concentrate. It’s nice to see him with an appetite for more than desserts, to be fair. So, Diego gives Klaus a kiss, pressing his to his brother’s forehead, and agrees, “I’ll go use the gym’s phone. You get back to your movie, baby.”

“Will you be long?” Klaus’ eyes scan the boiler room with a flash of paranoia, and Diego melts for him.

“Wanna come with, kiddo?” He suggests as he climbs from the bed, cracking his back. He offers his hand to Klaus, who takes it gratefully and somehow manages to be both a gymnast and a baby elephant in the way that he unfolds himself and follows a half-step behind. (He’s bare foot, which isn’t ideal in the gym— even after Diego’s mopped— and Diego makes a mental note to demand some socks be worn in the future.)

———

They eat their pizza side by side on the bed, Clueless playing again. Between molten cheese mouthfuls, Klaus attempts to explain what Diego’s missed, but mostly he gushes about the fashion rather than the plot. Diego’s sartorial knowledge sits at zero, he’s utilitarian to the core, but he’d more than appreciate Klaus in a little tartan number, pleats fanning out over his ass, and that counts for something. He makes all of the right agreeable noises and strokes Klaus hair with his spare, non-greasy hand. Grazes a nail against the delicate shell of his ear to make him sigh and sink further into Diego’s side. Diego has only ever been this handy with Klaus; this demonstrative in his affection, platonic or well. Otherwise. Klaus has always been so responsive for it, making it so easy.

“Should I start matching my bubblegum to my outfits, do you think?” Klaus hums with genuine consideration, and Diego can’t hide his amused snort quickly enough. His next comment is no more sensible: “Hey Diego, you ever had plastic surgery?”

“ _What?_ No?”

“Oh good, because my balls have plans.”

Diego doesn’t even bother to respond. Klaus does that to him more than he’d like to admit, leaves him speechless. Besides, it can become a dangerous game— egging Klaus on and seeing where his imagination winds up. Diego carries scars, damnit. Instead, he stuffs the crust of his final pizza slice into his mouth ( _whole? Diego you might choke!_ ) and jumps up to go rooting around for some scrap paper and pens.

“We’re going to write lists,” He explains, back on the bed and pushing the blank side of an old letter and a ballpoint at Klaus, “Safewords, triggers, any non-verbal signs you might need me to check in on, your hard limits, favourite kinks, list ‘em all for me, baby,” Diego uncaps his own pen with his teeth, crust dutifully swallowed, “Anything you want me to know, that I will need to know. Don’t worry if you remember more later, I just need the basics for now. We can revisit. I’ll do my own, too.”

They write with their elbows brushing. Klaus still dots his i’s with little hearts and stars, just as he (and Allison, actually) had when they were younger. Of course he does.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to be quite so well versed— which is absolutely ridiculous a notion if one pauses to consider the goddamn leather daddy dom aesthetic you have been sporting since we were teenagers. Like, your harness— you’ve totally multipurpose’d that, right?” He says conversationally as scrawls his last word with an elaborate looping on the tail of the y, “Done by the way.”

Diego rolls his eyes at such doubt of his prowess, but still, he gathers Klaus into the crook of his arm and drops a kiss to the top of his head, “Dabbled quite a bit, actually. Patch and I. Eudora. We um—“

_Oh, oh no_. Klaus turns in Diego’s arms to nuzzle into his neck and squeeze him extra tight, “You don’t have to say.”

“Switched, we switched.”

After the briefest of considerations, Klaus comes to the conclusion that he is, in fact, very much not surprised by this information, though he wouldn’t have expected Diego to be so forthcoming with it, “Yeah, you a subby cub?”

His older brothers fingertips scrabble at his side in retaliation to that comment, tickling Klaus until he’s hyperventilating with giggles. Diego growls playfully into his coconut, probably, scented hair, “Not as far as you’re concerned, little buddy.”

Klaus’ laughter continues. It’s full-bodied, a salve for Diego’s injured soul, “Umm, obviously. I’m baby.”

“You’re baby,” Diego echoes, rolling them both over so that they’re laying down and bracketing himself above Klaus up on his elbows. He takes Klaus’ list from him and reaches to lay it down with his on the bedside table, easily able to hold himself up on just the one arm, “We’ll come back to those properly in the morning, okay?” 

“Okay,” Klaus agrees, gazing up at Diego contentedly. Clueless is still buzzing behind them, but Klaus seems suitably distracted. A little awed to have his gorgeous older brother practically pinning him to his bed. 

Diego kisses him proper then, for the first time that night; licks past the seam of his lips and takes his sweet time with it, all lazy, languid. When he breaks from it, the tips of their tongues still entwined, it’s only to flutter pecks all over Klaus’ face until he’s suitably pinked up and radiating warmth that Diego basks in. 

“That’s what you like, right? Just so I’m sure I’m understanding. Or maybe need? Whichever. The being little?” He bites his own kiss plumped lip. He so wants to get this right for Klaus, “You wrote ‘age play’, I saw.”

“I like being little,” Klaus confirms, quiet but not unconfident, snaking his arms around Diego’s broad back and trailing his fingertips over the muscles he finds there, “Earlier, when you said about setting a bedtime? That made my tummy do a bit of a swoop.” 

Diego can most definitely work with that.

“Yeah? Is that right, little one? So if I said it was time for a last potty visit and then we needed to get you tucked into bed?”

_Ah, yes._

Klaus’s next exhalation is shaky and he clutches at Diego more, finding purchase. It’s as though he’s been waiting desperately on a sign that would okay it for him sink down some and Diego’s words have been the key to unlocking it, finally, “Yes ‘Ego,” He ducks his chin slightly, peers up all coy through his dark lashes, “I don’t want to have another accident in your bed but-but using the gym bathroom is scary.”

“Come on then, little one, I’ll take you. Then you can borrow an ‘Ego shirt to wear as ‘jamas, yeah? And if you need another pee pee in the night, you can wake me up and I’ll take you.”

“Will you shout? If I wake you? Will you go all ninja and knife me?”

Rolling his eyes, Diego flicks the rosy tip of Klaus’ nose, “I’ll grumble maybe, buddy, but you won’t get into trouble. For that at least.”

“Oh for that, huh?” Klaus smirks, skating his heel down Diego’s calf and rolling his hips just ever so slightly— not even as a prelude to anything more, just because of their proximity, “But if I’m _naaaaughty_?”

“I have no doubt that you’ll find out soon enough, you lovely little brat, you.”

———

The white t-shirt that Diego drops over Klaus’ head once they’re back from the bathroom is big enough that the hem of it skims Klaus’ mid-thighs like a mini dress. It’s actually one of Luther’s that Diego had nabbed after a sparring session and he decides now that it was for exactly this moment, that the universe must have arranged that particular accident because Klaus looks adorable. There’s simply not another adjective that will do. Though they’re the same height, Klaus very much doesn’t seem it when he brings up a balled fist to his tired eyes and yawns until his lip quivers. _Little_ is what he is; Diego had felt it coming over him whilst helping him wash his hands after he’d peed. Klaus’ fingers had been all lax between Diego’s and he’d fallen back to rest against his chest too, expecting him to soap and rinse them for him.

Now, Diego collects him up in his arms and relishes in the docility of his tired little brother draped in over-washed cotton. On another night, he might have been tempted to sink to his knees and bite at the tender backs of Klaus’ thighs. As it is, he just hooks his hands beneath them and gently instructs Klaus to wrap his legs around his waist, “Do you need me to leave a light on?”

Klaus doesn’t use his words, but Diego feels his nose rubbing back and forth over his shoulder as he answers _no_. 

_God_ , that’s sweet enough to make Diego shiver, but he does want to make sure— “I don’t mind? If it helps you?”

“No no, just need ‘Ego.”

_Perfect_. “You’ve got him,” Diego assures Klaus as he carefully sits them back on the bed. He begins to rock Klaus then, who remains happily cradled in his arms and preens when Diego begins tracing his nose with a barely-there touch of his fingertip.

When Klaus next speaks, they’ve shifted so that they’re laying like two spoons (and Diego had been so sure that he was mere seconds from sleep), “A ghost lives next to your desk, you know.”

_Oh. Christ._ Diego is resolute in not letting his eyes trail over to said desk, which he mostly used as a place to dump the miscellanea that even he managed to amass. He doesn’t want to imagine what kind of ghoulish corpse is hovering about his parched potted cactus, half used rolls of bandage gauze and chipped old mugs. 

“Are they bothering you, baby?”

Klaus shakes his head, but there’s a helpless childishness to the gesture and he snuggles himself further into Diego’s protective hold, “Nu-uh, he’s leaving me alone.”

“Okay good, because I don’t think I can fight and/or knife non-physical entities.”

Klaus at least finds another of his giggles at that comment, this one sleepy and faint, half-swallowed by Diego’s pillow, “Silly, I gotta protect you from the ghosts.”

“Hmm, no,” Diego pats at Klaus’ tummy, hand up under Luther’s huge t-shirt, “You’ve got to sleep is what you’ve got to do. Eyes closed now please.”

Agreeably, Klaus nods and squeaks a yawn into the pillow that had just eaten his giggle. Diego cannot pretend that he isn’t surprised, after some of the sass he’s had to contend with. He’s pleased though since he’s tired too and he needs all his faculties in place even when his brother is fully adult. If he ever is. 

“Good boy,” He yawns himself, just about to close his own eyes when he catches one of Klaus’ flickering back open again—

“One-one last thing ‘Ego. Is your police scanner on? Are you go-gonna disappear? Will you leave me?” _With the ghost_ goes unsaid. 

“Excuse my language little love, but no, literally fucking never.”

(That is true, and despite everything, it always has been.)


	2. testing the boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains explicitly sexual age play, scram if that's not your jam.

“Have you ever thought that maybe _you’re_ the brat? Huh? Didn’t think of that, did ya!”

Somehow, Klaus had escaped Diego to make it up onto the bed and is bouncing up on the tips of his bare toes in a way that makes his skirt (red plaid and box pleated because Diego had taken him shopping with certain intentions post-Clueless) flutter around his thighs. He’s too tall by half and likely to give himself a ceiling-caused-concussion if he misjudges a jump, but if Diego were to plop himself down on Klaus’ desk chair he could probably get an eyeful of boxer brief. Isn’t that a rather lovely thought? Enough to let Klaus have another minute or two above floor level, at least. 

“Klaus, you’ve had two warnings now,” Diego reminds his brother as he takes said seat and drums the blunt tips of his fingers against the scribbled-on desk as if bored by Klaus’ antics. He isn’t— he’s got more patience left than he ought to really, but Klaus has had a big day with many expectations. A session with a brand new therapist back to back with an addiction recovery group meeting. Diego had expected him to need an outlet afterwards and had been entirely unsurprised when it had come as soon as he’d flopped down in the passenger seat of Diego’s car, flailing and grousing once he had his brother’s full attention. Wherever Diego was a safe space for Klaus to just be whatever it was that he found himself needing.

(‘Can we get doughnuts for dinner?’ ‘No, we’re at the mansion tonight, remember baby? The family meal, Allison said Mom has been prepping all day already.’ ‘But doughnuts!’ ‘Klaus, doughnuts are not a satisfactory dinner. I refuse to let you replace your addictions with sugar. We’ve done take out this week, too.’ ‘I got peppers on the pizza!’ ‘You picked half of them off, I found them squished into the corner the box.’) 

“ _Klaus, you’ve had two warnings now!_ ” Klaus mimics— _the cheeky little…well_. 

Diego’s fingers flex. 

“Little one, I won’t ask you again, watch your mouth.”

“You watch it, I can’t see it from here!” To illustrate this, Klaus crosses his eyes and pokes out his pointed pink tongue and Diego does not laugh. Really, he doesn’t, but he does have to catch the inside of his mouth between his teeth to make sure. Klaus is gorgeous and ridiculous with it and it’s hard not to want to swoop in on him and catch the tip of his naughty tongue; he is every bit the tease, and as he turns to shimmy, Diego is in no doubt of how much he knows it. 

Diego ‘Number Two’ Hargreeves doesn’t do _silly_ ; nobody who knows him well would argue this point. He had done, once upon a time (his pranks had been legendary, and he’d gone through this whole questionable pun phase), but then life had happened, as it does. He’d learned of what an absolute injustice they’d received in their adoptive father, lost siblings and lovers, failed out of the academy and exposed himself to the very worst of society to make it so that his military strict childhood was at least worth something. It had all taken its toll and he’d slumped all the way down from being a superhero poster boy to dwelling in a basement boiler room and fighting dirty for extra pocket money.

He became a shadow. Not just of his former self, but of any self he could have grown to be. Diego made the decision to keep himself to the periphery of all but gory crime scenes and with it, Eudora’s waning patience for his vigilantism (but at least there she noticed him, reminded him he was a person and not just some abstract idea).

 _Saving lives, baby_ , but never his own.

Throughout, it’s only ever been Klaus who’s really seen the chinks in that stoic armour and to give him his dues, he’s always tried his best to dig his fingers in and prise the breastplates of it apart. Even at his worst, he’s had a single-mindedness when it’s come to revealing Diego’s best side. Sometimes it had been about keeping Diego around as his emergency contact because it’s hard to keep being a junkie an entirely selfless endeavour, but usually, it was because Diego’s eyes had never hardened like the rest of him— at least not when they’d been turned on Klaus. They always went gooey when they slid over the rearview mirror to watch Klaus curl in on himself and slur to Ben in the backseat.

Between them, they’ve discovered that little Klaus brings it out of his big brother with next to no effort. 

They’re both in recovery. 

As much as he’s aware of Klaus goading him, Diego is admittedly enjoying himself. It would be difficult not to, with how free and unburdened Klaus seems in his goofiness. He’s glowing neon, a cracked glow stick of a boy. Fizzing up like a shaken soda. However, it’ll likely end in tears if Diego doesn’t reel him back in quickly enough. The soda will spill all the way over and leave a sad, sticky puddle where all the bubbles had been. They’re both aware of what this particular game means: Klaus is desperate for guidance, for Diego to help him in untangling all of his knotted thoughts. That’s what his misbehaviour has been about. He doesn’t say that in so many words, but that’s part of Diego’s job when he’s being his big brother— to translate.

“Klaus, you think you might need some quiet time?”

Neither stilling nor replying, Klaus continues to rock back and forth from glittery-nailed toe to heel, humming something to himself. _Not good_. Diego can’t afford to let him sink too far into his own thoughts. 

“Hey hey, little one, c’mere?” Diego gets to his feet as he speaks and with one clever lunge forward, locks his arms around Klaus’ middle, managing to scoop him up from his spot on the bed and lay him over a shoulder in a smooth fireman’s lift. He captures Klaus’ skinny ankles too, to keep him from kicking back, and Klaus _umphs_ in almost-defeat, “Got you, got you now,” Diego promises and smiles when he feels Klaus’ fingers clutching at his sweater. He lets out an emotional sigh. It’s not a sob though, Diego had intercepted him just in time.

Satisfied that the boy in his arms is unlikely to put up too much of a struggle, Diego’s releases his grip on Klaus’ bare feet and proceeds to skate his freed up hand from his ankles to his calf, to the back of his knee (which is ticklish and makes Klaus squirm) and then the meatier flesh of his thigh— all the way up until he can brush his skirt aside and press a wet kiss to the boyish swell of Klaus’ behind. He bites, ever so gently, and laps his tongue over the shallow idents left behind by his teeth. Goosebumps spring up in its wake and Klaus’ toes curl as he keens quietly into Diego’s back. He does sniffle then. 

“Oh, baby. Today has been intense, hey? You’ve been struggling with your behaviour since I picked you up from your meeting. I have had to give you three warnings, and you know what means, don’t you?”

Although he can’t see it, Diego senses Klaus’ answering pout. 

“Can you tell me, using your big boy words?”

“‘Ego always follows through,” Klaus mumbles, beginning to recite Diego’s own words back to him, “Three unheeded warnings mean a punishment. It’s not because I’m bad, but-but I made some poor decisions and you have to help me to remember how to behave.” 

“Correct, little one. You’re so clever, I hope you know that. Diego thinks so, even when he has to help you. I’m going to sit us down on the bed and give you five spanks. Will you be able to count them out for me?”

Klaus’ reply is mumbled but affirmative and leaves his brother satisfied enough that he’s ready to receive his punishment, something he refuses to follow through with without Klaus’ consent. The aim is always to take the best care that he can of Klaus, never to hurt him just for the fun of it. That had been noted on both of their lists, that Diego would never strike Klaus out of blind anger. Diego’s domination of Klaus is kind and considered; Klaus submits through trust, never fear. As much as they’re still figuring some things out, that they have down. They both understand all too well why it matters, where it comes from. 

Keeping his boy clutched close, Diego situates them both on the bed in a way which allows Klaus to lay comfortably across his lap, “Are you ready?” He checks as he flips up Klaus' plaid skirt and tugs down his briefs in one swift motion, “Five, you count them for me.”

Not a full moment later, the flat of Diego’s palm strikes soundly on Klaus’ peach of a bottom. The skin-on-skin clap of it resoundingly sharp in the otherwise quiet room. _Oh_ , Klaus squeaks and bounces his feet against the mattress but he manages his ‘one, ‘Ego’. The first is not enough to colour the skin, but the second does it and a faint flush blooms in an approximation of Diego’s hand. Klaus cries softly for it, taking a second to get out his ’t-two’. His delicately breathy voice is the most darling thing and Diego’s dick stirs curiously in his jeans, wondering at how it could wreck it further. 

“Three to go,” Diego reminds him, blowing a cooling stream of air over the mark before he brings down his hand again. One angled to catch at the very top of Klaus’ thighs, leaving a rising of red heat that his skirt won’t quite hide. It’ll sting he hopes, and he’s pleased when his efforts are rewarded with a wounded hiss of ‘th-three ‘Ego, ow’. “Did that one hurt baby? Gosh, I thought my big boy could cope with more than just three spankings.” 

“But I'm not big!” Klaus argues and Diego softens considerably, gives Klaus a second to steel himself for the final two with his thumb smoothing through the shallow cleft between Klaus’ cheeks. _God_ , but pinked up as he is, he’s ripe for splitting open. Diego’s torn between pressing his cheeks apart until he can get a look at his tight little hole and not losing momentum. 

“No? Okay, well we’re almost done now. Take a deep breath for me.”

The fourth slap collides swiftly with Klaus’ right side, the final fifth with his left, and though he’s considerably shakier, Klaus’ counting of them both is no less prompt and obedient. _No less perfect_.

“There we go, little one, there we go. Well done. That’s your punishment finished now, you took it so well for me. Would you like a cuddle?”

Klaus always wants to cuddle, especially when he’s little. He’s a bit of a limpet, swinging from Diego’s shoulders while he’s attempting to cook them their breakfast and whining when they’re driving until Diego takes one hand off the wheel and gives it to him to hold. He’s been known to mouth at Diego’s fingers if they’re ever stopped in traffic for a while, and though he panics about people peering in at them, Diego never has the heart to stop him. Post-punishment is no exception and Klaus scrambles, clumsy in his urgency, to burrow right into Diego’s chest. His breathing is rapid and moist where it creeps past the top of Diego’s sweater and he trembles in his hold. 

_Oh, but he is only a baby, isn’t he?_

Diego begins to rock, as he’s taken to doing whenever he’s got Klaus in his lap, fussing with the curls at the nape of his neck, “Are you crying, hey? You getting my sweater wet? Does your bottom really hurt that bad?”

“Diego, please,” Klaus whines, not being able to find any more words than that, “ _‘Ego_.”

“What do you need, huh?” Diego questions, though he’s got something of an idea: the head of Klaus’ cock is already sticky with precum and almost as scarlet as the skirt that’s gotten all trussed up around his thighs, so that Diego gets a good eyeful of it, “Did your spanking give you some funny feelings, is that it?”

Klaus sneaks a furtive glance up from Diego’s chest and fuck, he looks astonishing, already ruined. His lashes spiked with tears, liner blurred and his lip chewed up, raw between his teeth. As always, Diego doesn’t let that slide— he tugs the lip free with his thumb and ducks to suck it soothingly, chiding _now now, what have I said about that, baby?_

The next noise out of his little brother is a desperate, broken thing. Diego fastens his mouth over Klaus’ to swallow it down and scrapes his nails up under Klaus’ hair— “Lucky for you, I know just what you need.”

———

Usually, Diego wouldn’t lay beneath Klaus, but just this once it does gift him with a rather beautiful sight.

Klaus perches on his knees above Diego’s face, the hem of his skirt skimming Diego’s forehead and his ass, still faintly reddened, close enough for Diego to kiss. Smirking, he licks a broad, wet stripe down between Klaus’ cheeks, thoughts back to where they’d been as he’d spanked him. After only the first touch of his tongue, Klaus has to tip forward and take the headboard in his hands to steady himself. His knees are already jelly and they’ve barely gotten started. Whines just fall from him, filthy and angelic.

“‘Ego?” He whimpers, fighting valiantly to keep himself from grinding down on his brother’s face, sure that will get him in all sorts of trouble, “Tha-that’s dirty.”

“Yeah it is, little one,” Diego agrees, but it only pushes him to lock a hand around Klaus’ narrow hip and pull him in closer, tongue swiping even deeper between his cheeks before lazily tracing back up the underside of his hot, twitchy little dick, “Your big brother loves being filthy with you, teaching you naughty things. You won’t let anyone else do this though, will you?”

It’s something of a rhetorical question, and Diego’s effectively blindfolded by Klaus’ skirt, but above him, the boy shakes his head something fierce anyway. He’s polite and ignoring Diego just won’t do.

“I got you, baby, follow me,” Diego assures him before he gets both hands around Klaus’ flesh and spreads him wide open. His own breath hitches in anticipation and then appreciation of how goddamn delicious Klaus’ hole is, even before he’s gotten a proper taste of it. _Fuck, if he isn’t the colour of peonies and pink lemonade_. “Legs wider baby boy, let me see you properly.”

Klaus does just as he’s told; slides his knees further apart with a cute little grunt until he’s all but sitting on Diego’s tongue as it snakes out to catch him. The smell of his arousal, the taste of it, is all-encompassing and for a second, Diego’s overwhelmed. _Shit_. He doesn’t want to leave Klaus waiting though, is the thing, doesn’t want to allow him time to think himself into another anxious knot.

“Got you, going to make your little boy pussy feel so good,” He murmurs, to himself more than anything, and finally buries himself tongue first in Klaus’ ass. 

There’s no delicate way to do it, not when he’s so ravenous for it; for Klaus and his choked up noises and faltering, antsy hips. Klaus is such a little fidget but Diego is becoming rather fond of it, lets him wiggle all he wants to as he sucks wet, open-mouthed kisses all the way across to his taint. Diego isn’t half as measured like this; he loses himself in claiming Klaus and each stuttered moan he can provoke from him as he sucks at the taste of the precum that’s dripping from his dick to his balls and below. It’s messy, saliva soaked and every inch of Klaus quivers for it— including his leaking cock and the pucker of his spit-smeared entrance. 

Diego takes that as an open invitation and settles all of his attention on that one fluttering spot, holding Klaus still so that he can find the perfect angle for fucking his tongue up inside of him. Klaus yelps as though he’s been burned, falls forward so fast that his head knocks against the wall.

“Oh, my baby, baby boy,” Diego laughs gently against him. The hot puffs of his breath don’t help and Klaus cries out again, dropping one hand to dig his fingers into Diego’s shoulder, hard enough that there’ll be bruising come tomorrow, “Is it too much?” Diego asks, unfazed by the clawing grip Klaus has on him, “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, please,” Klaus whimpers, “Please, please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” Diego kneads at his boy’s inner thighs with light skating touches to counter the intensity of everything that had come before them, “But you hurt yourself, little one. That’s not what we want.”

Klaus screws up his eyes to keep from crying (he always cries) and grits his teeth, “It is,” He insists, not wanting to be a brat again but not wanting to lose out on a climax that’s threatening to hit him like a tsunami already, “I _need you_ , ‘Ego.”

_Right, well._

As soon as Diego’s tongue in on him again, probing inside of him, Klaus is pushed to his absolute edge. His moans nothing but slurred nonsense, he arches until the tendons in his thighs tighten beneath Diego’s palms and his release shoots from him in two thick loads, splattering against Diego’s face, his lips and nose and jaw, and the underside of Klaus’ own skirt. It’s Diego’s first facial and it leaves him as dizzy and breathless as Klaus, just for a moment, before he remembers his own aching erection and how it hasn’t received any proper attention since it first perked up at Klaus’ teasing little atop-bed dance routine.

“I’m going to flip you over now little one, you with me? You going to be okay?” 

Diego does so as gently as he can but Klaus still expels a little _umph_ as he’s dropped bodily onto the mattress. He’s too boneless to support himself and so he moves like a rag doll from Diego’s arms. Diego pets his cheek with his knuckles and drops a sticky kiss to his sweaty forehead.

“Klaus?”

“Hmmm?”

“Colour, baby?”

“Green.”

Diego beams, “That’s my good boy.”

Whipped off, Klaus’ skirt becomes a cloth to clean Diego’s face, and he’s almost sad about it— but only until Klaus makes grabby hands for it. He snatches it when it’s offered to him and nuzzles it like a security blanket before sucking at the salt of one of its new stains. 

_Christ on a cracker, indeed._

After that display, Diego only just has time to unzip his cock from his jeans before one good stroke has him coming all over Klaus’ taught tummy and softened cock, his little brother’s thighs falling right open to accommodate him. 

“ _That’s_ dirty,” Diego tells him and bless him, Klaus blushes to the tips of his ears and hides behind the skirt (though Diego swears that sees a glimpse of a devious grin).

———

“We’ve got an hour until Mom calls us for dinner, babe,” Diego informs Klaus, once he’s cleaned him thoroughly with a couple of baby wipes and presented him with a drink of water in his very recently acquired pink plastic sippy cup. It works well for when he’s in a bit of a state and too shaky to be trusted with a likely to spill big boy glass, though he still goes shy all over when Diego watches him drink from it, “What do you need before then?”

“Knees, floor and cushion first,” Klaus answers, brief but helpful, “Please. Then shower? New clothes?”

“We can do that,” Diego assures him, placing one of the bed’s pillows down by his feet, “Just like that?”

Klaus nods, big bright eyes conveying his thanks, the spout of his cup loose between his lips. He sinks from the bed to the floor and gets himself comfortable on his knees before leaning in to press close to Diego’s legs, murmuring until Diego understands that he’s asking non-verbally for his big brother to card his fingers through his hair. He’s hazy still and buzzing with the overspill of worked-through frustrated energy, but wrapping his arms around Diego’s calves grounds him. There’s the rough rub of the denim on his cheek, too and Diego’s nails digging deep into his scalp and the velvety skin just behind ears. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Diego says, “I was proud this morning when you woke up in time to shower and have breakfast before therapy. I was so proud that you made your meeting too because I know how much both of those in one day asked of you— not many would manage it, you know? I was a little less proud when you badgered me about doughnuts, and when you didn’t listen three wholes times, but you really took your punishment perfectly, so we can move on from that now.”

“I’m sorry—” Klaus starts, but Diego’s shakes his head, catches Klaus’ chin between a finger and thumb so he can tilt him up to kiss his nose.

“You’re good, kiddo, don’t you dare worry. Now, you think you’ll be able to a big boy for dinner? I’ll be right there, and happy to keep an eye on you, but we might not want to have to dodge too many nosy questions. You know what Five’s like, everything new becomes an unsolved equation.”

Klaus doesn’t much want his road to recovery, his new relationship, to become an endless string of algebra on Five’s bedroom wall.

“Ten more minutes?” He whispers, clinching his cup in his teeth in order to hold up to two inky hands.

"If you think you can be quick in the shower, I'll give you fifteen. Finish your water, baby."

Klaus does as he's told with no argument, one hand trailing up and down Diego's shin, the other tilting his cup so that he can swallow the last of its contents, and his eyes still a touch unfocused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the encouragement and interest in the first chapter of this. Hopefully, if you were one of the people curious about where I might take it to, you're still feeling this vibe!


	3. oh so tired of being sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear this chapter got away from me somewhat. Really, this is terribly self-indulgent, but I do hope you enjoy it in all of its emo glory.
> 
> As with the last, this chapter contains super sexual age play, so if you're not cool with that, heed this here warning friend.

Somehow, Klaus is at his least clingy when he’s sick. It doesn’t make an awful lot of sense to Diego, who finds himself shifting into protective papa bear mode whenever Klaus seems even the slightest bit uncomfortable, but he keeps it minimal: strategically placed mop bucket, tub of pain pills on the bedside table and a nod to where he’ll be sat, trying to distract himself with a dogeared mass market thriller. 

Without question, Klaus is also always a grown-up when his withdrawals churn up his innards and _okay_ , Diego gets that part— because who would want to feel even more helpless when they’re incapacitated with nausea? Klaus doesn’t want, or is it need, to be Diego’s baby brother when he’s got a white knuckle grip on the bucket and hot snot and tears bubbling along with each cough-up of bile. Diego respects his wishes but not gathering him into his arms and shushing him takes some fight.

It’s the same routine each time the sickness gets a proper hold on him; Klaus shies from even a cool palm pressed to his clammy forehead, Diego worries silently as his hand retracts. (Maybe takes it just a little personally.)

Klaus finally cracking happens when they’re spending a day over in the family mansion.

Diego’s at the sink, drying the lunch dishes Mom’s washing when he hears it. The most pathetic little whining of _umm ‘Ego?_ floats over from the kitchen doorway, sounding as faint as Diego imagines Klaus’ ghosts do (they don’t). He almost drops a sudsy salad bowl in his haste to spin on his boot heel, panicked eyes falling on his boy who’s topless and bent double, clutching at the doorjamb for support. A pallid Victorian waif where his vibrant glam starlet should be.

“Shit,” He grunts, throwing an apologetic glance at Grace for the curse (who only _tsks_ quietly) and dumping the bowl and towel on the counter, wishing he had Five’s power just so he could make the leap across from the sink to Klaus a fraction faster, “Little one? What do you need?”

“You,” Klaus cries as soon as Diego’s close enough to scoop him into an embrace, solid and safe, “Please. Was sick. Ben said to get ‘Ego.”

Diego can smell it on him, hot and sour, but he doesn’t pull away, “Yeah, baby? Ben’s a good brother. Did it happen up in your bedroom?”

Klaus only cries harder and Diego doesn’t care if one of their siblings is likely to walk in on them, he gets him balanced up on his hip and kisses his forehead, “Need me to come help you clean it up? Then I can give you a bath, kiddo?”

“Mmm, please. But-but don’t be mad,” Klaus whispers, shaky with apprehension, “I made a mess. I’m gross. ‘Ego, I’m sorry.”

“Hey no, never gross,” Diego assures him, setting him back down on his wobbly feet to take his hand, “Come on, show me what’s happened and I’ll get it fixed.”

Klaus leads Diego up to his childhood room and a rumpled, vomit-soaked bed. He wasn’t at all wrong in describing it as a mess. The poor thing; it must have snuck right up on him, most likely jolting him up from his post-lunch nap. Still, bedcovers are easily stripped and bundled into a washing machine and little boys are easily bundled into a tub. Diego has seen a lot worse. Klaus most definitely has, a million times so, though maybe not when he’s been feeling small. Diego really doesn’t like to think about Klaus dropping in the midst of Vietnam, even if he’d had Dave at his side. 

“How about you have a little sit with your water?” He suggests, settling Klaus with his half-full sippy cup, quickly grabbed from their shared overnight bag, “Hey, did Bowie bunny fall foul of your being sick? Let me see.”

Bowie, luckily, had not. Inky indigo with floppy ears and chubby paws perfect for rubbing across little noses, he was still propped up on a clean patch of the pillow. The rabbit was almost brand new, Diego having brought it back to the boiler room only a week previously. With it hidden in a plain paper bag, he had mumbled something along the lines of _easily returnable, I just spotted him and thought…_ as he’d extended the bag towards Klaus. Klaus, who had gasped in awe as he’d tugged the toy free, pressing it immediately to his chest and inhaling from his furry head. He’d christened him Bowie within minutes (‘like the knife?’ ‘ _nu-uh_ ‘Ego, silly!’) and ever since Bowie has been a staple for little Klaus. Diego found that his heart did a funny sort of swell whenever he caught Klaus tucking him against shoulder and lifting a paw to pet his own cheek.

“Here we go, all safe,” He says, passing the stuffed toy over before getting to work on the balling up the bedclothes, doing all he can to keep everything neat and contained. It’s not the easiest of jobs and his respect for his Mom managing seven kids grows yet again. _Are androids eligible for sainthoods, and who exactly would he write to with such a suggestion?_

The eyes Klaus watches Diego working with are overcast with guilt and he keeps one of Bowie’s ears at his mouth to mask the quiver in his lip. He hadn’t asked this of his brother before, and with good reason, but he’d woken so suddenly and felt so mortifyingly desperate for Diego as soon as he realised what had happened. He often did these days. Itching for the sanctuary of Diego felt like another addiction, though it was one he probably wouldn’t be mentioning in a therapist’s office any time soon. _My brother lets me be three years old, sometimes we touch each other’s cocks whilst he indulges me. You know how these things go, it’s cool_. Though surely that would now have to be amended to, _my brother had to deal with my sick saturated bed, not to mention my sick saturated self, and now he can’t look at me without remembering that I’m actually vile. He’s very pretty, I assure you, so as you can imagine, I was undeserving even before I asked him to deal with my bodily fluids for a second time_. 

“I’m so sorry,” He finds himself wailing into his rabbit, “‘Ego I’m sorry, you-you can go, I’ll finish off. Go see Mom. Help her, she deserves it more.”

Grace is never gross, and a more coherent Klaus would have something to say about that, about her programming denying her the autonomy she deserves as a woman, but current Klaus can only draw a comparison that leaves him feeling lesser.

A concerned frown creases between Diego’s brows as he stuffs Klaus’ soiled shirt into the balled up sheets he’s holding (somewhat gingerly, admittedly), “Klaus, kiddo, where’s that come from?”

“I don’t— when-when I’m sick— I don’t make you deal with it, that’s not fair.”

“Is that—?” Diego sighs and drops to a crouch in front of his seated brother, “Is that why you don’t even let me hug you when you get like this? Baby no, gosh no. Hey, this is my job, this is part of what I knew I was agreeing to, what I was offering to help with. You didn’t have to protect me from it.”

Klaus only brings Bowie up higher, so that he can both absorb his sobbing and hide his embarrassment, “But like this, I’m not pretty. Not enough for-for you.”

_Right well, shit._

“Hey, two things,” Diego begins, holding up two fingers and waiting patiently until at least they have some of Klaus’ attention, sorrowful green eyes peeking up over deep blue fur, “One, you have no obligation to be pretty for me, though I always think you are and two, you’re absolutely more than enough in every conceivable way, I promise you. And this is me speaking, your silly, surliest big brother.”

In that moment, Klaus doesn’t quite have the vocabulary to explain that whilst he genuinely appreciates the sentiment of that, he’s not always capable of fully believing it or even turning up the volume of Diego’s voice above his own, far less kind one, in his head. 

That there are ghosts that tell him otherwise too, their Father included (though he’s still not one that cares to be summoned at Klaus’ will).

“Bath now?” Is what he whispers instead, pausing to sup at his water to soothe the tearful croak in his throat, “Bowie can come with me?”

———

Bowie sits on the toilet lid, which is less hygienic than Diego would like, but it does coax a half smile from Klaus.

“Right, your bunny is watching to make sure I don’t forget anything important! Shall we do teeth first?” Diego doesn’t actually wait for Klaus’ reply and Klaus doesn’t mind. It’s a relief to have his big brother so masterfully take charge, as it always is, “Up on the counter with you,” Diego continues as he hefts Klaus up under the armpits to sit him beside the sink before bending down to root about in their overnight bag, “You did remember to pack a toothbrush, yeah, and not just four different flavours of lipgloss again?”

Thankfully, Klaus had tucked into it his iridescent toiletries bag, and so Diego squirts a blob of peppermint paste onto the pink and white bristles of it and gets to work— _open wide, sugar lump_ — cleaning his little brother’s teeth for him as he would an actual toddler’s. For his part, Klaus spits on command twice and gets a kiss on the nose for it both times, beaming after each with foamy lips. 

“Hey, there’s my Klaus, I see him,” Diego teases, light with the relief of the other coming out from under his own personal dark cloud. He chucks his little brother under the chin, “Sit here while I draw your bath? No falling off and breaking any bones, please.” 

Klaus knocks his heels back rhythmically against the counter (but nothing riskier) as Diego fills the tub with water that’d be a touch too warm for anyone but his brother, along with a good few glugs of his baby bubble bath— _lavender scented, gentle on even the most sensitive skin and part of a three-step bedtime routine_ , apparently. Diego doubts that the other steps they tend to follow with are quite as the advertisers intended, but they work well for Klaus, who genuinely thrives within a routine he can rely on. Diego’s good at those, at keeping up-to-date calendars and bullet-pointed itineraries, so it’s become part of his role. They have various systems in place, for which Four has provided various sparkly gel pens. 

“In with me?” Klaus proposes hopefully, pointing his long toes like a ballet dancer as Diego helps him shuck off his silk pyjamas pants, “Bath cuddles?”

“Yeah? You want me to?”

Klaus’ answering nod is much determined and complete with the threat of a pouty scowl. Diego is rendered powerless in its presence.

“Fine, I suppose so, if I must. Come on— I imagine I’m carrying you there, too, oh small princely one?”

Once they’ve sunk beneath the bubbles, Klaus slots himself easily between Diego’s splayed thighs— as snug as a puzzle piece, with the rivets of his spine flush to Diego’s abs and his head turned so that he can press his cheek to his throat. Feel him swallow. He sighs as though the buoyancy of the water has taken ten tonnes of weight off of him and Diego drops at least twenty kisses to the top of his head, a flurry of love that he has to show immediately, lest it burst inside him. 

“Got you,” He murmurs into the dark scruff of his hair as he grabs a sponge up from the rim of the tub and begins swirling it over Klaus’ almost concave tummy and up over his nipples (which pebble up all edible, sugar mouse pink), “Got you right here. My little baby boy, where he belongs. Isn’t that right?”

Klaus mewls gently, and Diego can’t see his face properly, but he thinks he might be getting weepy again.

“You do, you know? You belong with me, you always have. Remember when we still lived at home, when we were still the Umbrella Academy, how you used to follow me like a second goddamn shadow. How I used to shove at you and roll my eyes, but then come find you and give you a secret hug before we were ushered off to bed at night?”

Water sloshes up over onto the floor tiles as Klaus rolls against Diego, twisting like a fish until he’s laying with his chin nestled at his brother’s clavicle and his lovely little behind swelling up above the snowy bubbles. They’re too tall really, and their feet bend awkwardly at the end of the tub, but neither of them notices. If anything, Klaus seems too small; Diego feels as though he’s become the whale from Pinocchio and could swallow him whole. 

“You’re just a baby tonight, huh?” He murmurs, resuming his rubbing of the sponge between the winged angles of Klaus’ shoulder blades, “I’ll be extra careful with you, hmm? Is that what you need?”

“Yes. Before, it was scary,” Klaus whispers in return, “Was like a nightmare, but then I woke up, and it-it was still happening.”

“Well I’m here now, and I’ll keep all the nightmares at bay. I just need you to promise me that you won’t suffer in silence or shut me out when you really need me, can you do that for Diego?”

“‘kay ‘Ego.”

It’s with the utmost care that Diego proceeds to wash Klaus; he bestows a certain reverence on the soaping of his skin (virginally pale under the bathrooms light as it bounces back off fo the white tiling); of tracing his bones and subtle ropes of muscle with the sponge and a trailing fingertip, squeezing it up above him to watch the water rain down on his upper back and hair. Between them, the so-hot-it-pinches water laps lazily, as soothing as a lullaby. Breathing with it, Klaus kisses quite innocently at the silky spot of skin just below Diego’s earlobe— nips gently when his brother’s wandering sponge finds his it's self exploring between his thighs. 

“Is this okay?” Diego has to make sure when Klaus seems especially innocent, “Am I allowed to touch you here?”

“Mmm, but only you.” 

“Only me, you know to tell me if anyone else tries, yes?”

Teeth scraping against Diego’s earlobe once more, Klaus’ nod is desperate as his hips roll beneath the water. _Good boy_. Diego lets the sponge go to wrap his fingers around Klaus emerging erection, just squeezing. Especially for him, Klaus makes the most sublime sounds; ruts further into the tease of the touch, finding Diego’s other hand and winding their fingers together as he does. He needs to be close as possible, to be taken care of, and so Diego keeps from taunting him too much— not when he’s had such a delicate day. He wouldn’t want to circle him back around into a state of panic. 

“Here I am. Just focus on me, little one. Going to make you feel so good, until you forget the bad bits.”

Diego doesn’t overcomplicate things, either. 

His grip on Klaus is sure and strong, but he lets Klaus set the pace, revels in the way his boy lazily fucks back against him. It’s a luxurious thing, with the calming scent of lavender hanging in the air and the ripples, too; there being no need for them to really hurry. Diego doesn’t have the most positive connotations with long periods of time spent immersed in water, but having Klaus’ cock in-hand and his sweet little baby breaths at his ear does wonders for overwriting at least a few awful memories. 

He allows himself a particularly self-satisfied smirk when Klaus’ knees skid on the bottom of the tub and propel him further into Diego’s wall of muscle and tan skin, dips down to lick his way past Klaus’ parted lips and feel the vibrations of his over-sensitive, frustrated grunt. His baby is close, he’s sure.

“Can’t you do it little one, don’t you know how to fuck my hand right yet? Why don’t you focus on making Diego feel good and I’ll finish you off?”

Never one to stray too far from Diego’s instruction, Klaus chooses to follow his current directions by steadying both of his hands around his thick shoulders and then by fastening his lips around one of his copper coin nipples. First, it’s just the tip of his tongue, sneaking out to graze curiously at the ring pierced through it. Then he suckles hard enough to pull a sudden and animalistic moan from the man above him—

“Shit, yes baby. Just like that. Just like that for me.”

Still, with his mouth eager enough to bruise on Diego’s chest, Klaus is rewarded with Diego’s calloused thumb brushing back and forth up over the head of his dick on every other stroke and Diego’s other hand coming up to comb at the wet curls at the nape of his neck. He shivers from his own slimmer shoulders right down to his toes, wedged against porcelain to give him more leverage; huffs his own more quiet moan against Diego’s damp flesh. Diego does something magic then— as if the moan had been permission. He pulses his palm and yanks at Klaus’ hair in tandem to make his little boy turn as liquid as the water they’re in.

It gets him exactly what he wants: Klaus begins to cry, just as he had in the kitchen doorway (tongue still toying with the nipple ring even as he does). With an aim is to purge Klaus of all his residual pain, any worries that might still be sitting like cement in his poorly little belly, Diego all but demands the finality of his orgasm from him. His boy at least is a quick learner and thrusts like an overeager puppy for it, without rhythm or reason beyond cutting through the water and into Diego’s clever grip.

“Yes baby, yes baby boy, just like that. You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Sentences entirely beyond him, Klaus just whines. For Diego. For his building orgasm. It’s slow, painfully slow— and then in a blink, it very much is not. Klaus’ hips give one final fuck forwards and he’s coming, spurting suddenly over Diego’s fingers and abdomen. He collapses against his brother to smear it between them before the water can wash it away.

“Shit,” He hisses and then squeaks when Diego gives his ass a short sharp smack— _excuse me, little one, language_. 

“Sorry I just, I just—”

Klaus is cut off before he can fully apologise by his brother shushing him, lifting his chin with a single finger so that their mouths can meet. Deep and slick, it’s a kiss that Klaus can melt all the way into, one that steals the last of the oxygen in his lungs. At that moment he’d be happy to faint into unconsciousness in Diego’s hold. Let the water cool around them, let the bubbles dissolve into nothingness, Klaus wouldn’t know. The pair of them suspended together. 

He’s allowed it for a minute or so, but then Diego’s thumbs are at his cheekbones and he’s stroking to claim back his attention, angling himself so that their eyes meet, “Hello there little boy, I think it’s almost time I got you to bed.”

Diego climbs out first, lays down the biggest, fluffiest towel he can find on the floor, and then scoops Klaus up and onto it. 

“You look like an angel on a cloud, baby,” He coos, reaching over for Bowie and tucking him into Klaus’ arms, “Wait just a second, yeah?”

They’d gotten a bottle of baby oil with the bubble bath. It had been on special offer was the thing and the idea of massaging it into his boy had piqued Diego’s interest. Though they’d yet to experiment, Diego had packed it amongst their underwear etc anyway, just in case. Fetching it from their bag now seems like the most obvious thing to do and as he uncaps it, Klaus stirs at the click, starts to flex and unfurl to reveal all of his pretty angles, everywhere that’s Diego’s to touch (lifting Bowie up over his head to keep him safe and dry). 

So, that’s how Diego begins. He drizzles Klaus with the oil like syrup and massages it over every available inch of him; smoothes it across the planes of his back and belly, works it into the dips and creases between each of his toes and the tender innards of his elbows, the undersides of his knees, too. When Diego’s palm first meets his chest, Klaus’ eyes slip closed and don’t flicker again. It’s as though he’s under a spell and Diego makes a note of it— _a fussy Klaus can be soothed to sleep with ease like this_. He only moves when he’s nudged too, makes no more noise than a slight breeze.

“Baby? I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but do you want to make Diego feel good again before we go to bed? Do you have a colour you can tell me?”

Klaus isn’t entirely sure that he isn’t dreaming, but whatever his state, he’s happy to answer, “Green.”

“Yeah?” Diego squirts a good amount of the baby oil onto his fingers, “You’re such a good boy, you know that? Can you spread your legs for me, please?” There’s no hesitation in Klaus complying to Diego’s request; his thighs just fall simply apart, _this? this is yours_ , and Diego’s wastes no time in working his slicked hands between them. Coating them until they’re dripping and the air is heady with lavender, “That’s it, my good boy. Roll over for me, thighs back together, just like that.”

Spooning up behind Klaus has become the most instinctive of things, now that they sleep slotted together each night, with Diego’s arms wound around Klaus in a bid to keep him close and safe. Rutting his dick between his boy’s wet thighs seems like the natural progression of that and _oh sweet merciful god_ , his length fits Klaus like a dream; dragging agonisingly against the cleft of his ass to burrow deep and desperate between his thighs (just a slight shifting of his angle, a little pressure and his head could sink into Klaus’ perfectly pink hole and _that’s a rush_ ). 

It’s enough to make his voice crack against Klaus' neck and his hands flex desperately at his hips as his own jolt forwards hungrily, “That’s it, baby, that’s it, I’m going to fuck you soon, really fuck you, finally found out how tight you’ve kept yourself for me, did you know that? But this is good, you’re so unbelievably good for me.” 

It’s Diego's own words that tip him over the edge— the promise that he makes to both himself and his boy. 

Afterwards, he rolls Klaus onto is front and eagerly coaxes his thighs apart to get a look at where his release has splashed his balls, his soft little cock and butt. It’s a glorious thing, his own seed sticky against freshly washed skin, wonderfully exposed beneath the bright bathroom light. Filthy where he’d made Klaus clean again. Diego has never seen anything quite so perfect, he’s sure and he certainly doesn’t have the self-control to keep his fingers from it, smearing them through his come as he crowds in against Klaus to lick a bold stripe between the juncture of his neck and shoulder with the flat of his tongue, punctuated with a loud, sucking kiss. 

“You, Klaus, listen to me, are not gross,” He begins, his left hand finding Klaus’ hand so that he can thread it through his where he’s still clutching childishly at Bowie, “But you know, your big brother likes disgusting things sometimes, he likes to do them with you. Never doubt that baby, never doubt what I’m willing to give and take from you,” Diego underlines his words by nudging his now cum-frosted fingertips up against Klaus’ entrance, pausing for Klaus’ mewl of expectancy and the hitching up of a knee before he feeds what he can of it inside of him, “Feel that, baby? That’s me making you messy, and that’s okay. Never hide from me Klaus, there’s nothing about you I don’t want to see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Bowie.](https://www.jellycat.com/images/products/medium/BAS3NB.jpg)


	4. down and out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This took forever, between shit shifts and heavy drinking, and I'm not even sure I'm pleased with the outcome??? It's the longest chapter so far, but yet sort of feels like it'll work as a two-parter with chapter 5. Eh. A necessary evil? (I'm really selling it right now aren't I, bloody hell.) 
> 
> Some slight Klaus whump ahead, friends.

For the first few months of their relationships, Diego doesn’t fight. Each offer that comes his way, he turns down. It’s not worth the risk; the off-chance that stepping into the ring will bring him up against someone he can’t beat, that he’ll instead become incapacitated with injury and unable to take proper care of his boy. Having Klaus become such a fixture of his day-to-day changes Diego’s priorities, though his boss doesn’t much appreciate it. Sure, Diego’s mopping of the floors and equipment upkeep is all well and good, but he’s a big draw when his names printed in block capitals. It’s always a packed house when there’s a once famous superhero slated to take the stage and with each match, he makes the gym at least triple what he’s paid. 

It’s not said in so many words, but Diego starts to sense that his days are numbered in what he generously considers his apartment if he continues to wave away the contracts he’s presented with. It’s a constant niggle at the back of his mind, that he won’t deny, but they’ll figure it out between them, find someplace else. Hell, he’ll relent and move them back into the goddamn mansion full time if it comes to it. Wherever he can be sure that he won’t have multiple limbs broken and thus be unable to keep Klaus safe. 

And yet, his finally giving in and scrawling his signature on a dotted line comes at Klaus’ behest. 

He’s not altogether surprised by the turn of events.

Klaus is grown-up at the time, propped against one of the rusted columns that run through the centre of the boiler room and looking sinfully good between his laced leather trousers and the shaft of morning light cutting across him at a diagonal. As he slurps at a coffee, that’s at least three-quarters creamer and sugar, he looks Diego up and down, darts out his tongue entirely to tease. _Oh god_ , there’s mischief brewing in him, Diego sees.

“I always thought it was hot, you know, your boxing. _I’m_ not at all averse to you starting again,” Klaus hums conversationally, shifting against the post with feline flexibility.

Diego definitely lets himself stare for a beat, but he also shakes his head, “It’ll end badly.” 

“Didn’t use to, did it? Not too often, anyway.”

“Often enough,” Diego grunts, “It isn’t worth it, not when you’re my responsibility.”

Klaus shrugs, abandons his mug atop the nearest symmetrical surface and stalks across to where Diego is sat oiling a selection of his throwing knives, “But big brother mine,” He purrs, slipping himself into Diego’s lap and plucking a knife from his grasp, spinning it between his long fingers (Diego immediately takes it back and swats at Klaus, _you’re not too old for a spanking right now, you know_ ), “It won’t be very responsible of you at all if your boss man decides this place is no longer part of your deal, will it? Oh sure, I’m well versed in the whole street urchin thing, I’d make an excellent Oliver Twist, or wait, who was that other one? The Artful Dodger? But! You’re supposed to be looking after me now, keeping me out of the gutter. I’ve grown rather attached to having a real roof over my head. Ridiculous of me, I know.”

“I’ll figure it out, babe, yeah?” Diego tries to get Klaus on side which a couple of sloppy kisses to the back of his neck a hand curved to his hip bone, and _oh_ , Klaus shivers, but they don’t prove to be as much of a distraction as Diego would have liked—

“Just one fight? Go prove your masculinity darling, it’ll make me wet.” 

Diego snorts into the shorter hairs at Klaus’ nape, “What happened to the subversion of traditional gender roles, hmm?”

“We’ll get back to that as soon as you’ve got some impressive bruises for me to press at, thank you very much.”

“You’re going to harass me about this for as long as it takes, aren’t you?”

“Oh, of course, Diego doll— and you know me, stubborn as a mule when it suits,” Klaus swings himself around in Diego’s lap and flashes him a flirty smirk once they’re face-to-face. His kohl-smoked eyes are damn near deviant, “Go on, you know you want to,” He says and honestly, Diego’s unsure as to whether he means _fight them_ or _fuck me_. 

To ward off any brewing arguments, he simply drags him into a silencing kiss; hand tangling in his hair and tongue demanding as it pushes into Klaus’ willing mouth, tasting too much sugar. 

(Klaus still gets a goddamn purple inked pen into his hand once they break apart, flushed and panting.)

———

His big come back is scheduled for a Thursday evening.

Diego refuses to let Klaus attend and he has a considered and reasonable retort prepared for each of Klaus’ needling pouts. _What if you have a flare up of stress in the crowd? There are always weirdo at these things, they know who I was and if they recognise you as The Séence too who knows what they’ll do. What if I’m hurt and it upsets you to somewhere small and I can’t be there because we’re barely one round in…_

What Diego does not admit aloud is that he’s anxious about being out of practice and embarrassing himself in front of his boy. How would Klaus hold on to any of his faith in him if he were to witness him collapsing into a pathetic heap of his own blood and shattered teeth? 

“I mean, I’m really only just u-upstairs. I’ll be back before you know it,” He insists when the time comes for him to leave, sounding as though he’s doing what he can to reassure himself more so than Klaus. He’s spitting static with nervous energy, fingers flexing as he paces, “There’s a T-Tupperware of Mom’s s-spaghetti and meatballs ready for you to reheat, and that movie you c-chose is in the player. What did you say it was called? But-But I’m A Cheerleader? I got you s-some of her cookies too, though please try not to eat them all in one g-go.”

“Diego—”

“Try and be a big boy while I’m gone, if you can. I’ve not had a proper chance to k-kid p-proof the place, you know? But if you want your sippy it’s w-washed and on the side. Will you be-be okay taking yourself to the b-bathroom?”

“Babe!” Klaus has to pull Diego into a hug to keep him from vibrating and tip their foreheads together in order to streamline Diego’s focus, “Relax for me? I’m going to be cool, so cool, freezing. Mom’s pasta! Cheeky little masturbation session in preparation for you coming back to me all sweaty and testosterone-fuelled. Oh! Going to repaint my nails, too. Plus, I bet Ben will drop by for a gossip. That’s the dream evening, I swear.”

There’s at least a small smile playing on Diego’s lips when Klaus finishes his schpiel, “What if I l-lose?”

“Pity party? I give great sympathetic oral. I’ll ask Ben to leave before that bit, unless…?”

“Klaus!” Diego admonishes, though there’s more curiosity in it than there is scolding, “You’re t-truly sure, though?”

“That my consolation fellatio will be spectacular? That Ben will watch if he’s invited to?”

There’s a definite roll to Diego’s eyes, “That yo-you’ll be okay?”

“I promise you. I’ll miss you a bit, and I’ll probably launch myself at you when you return, bruised ribs be damned, but I will survive in the interim,” He pulls him close again, this time into a more sincere hug, one with a sway to it, “Thank you for making sure. Now, go and make me proud. Rooting for you my love, got all the faith in the fucking world.”

Diego blows Klaus a kiss from the doorway and bites his lip before his back is to his boy and the boiler room and he’s off upstairs. Into the breach, as it were.

———

Multitasking like some sort of professional (what the profession might be, Klaus couldn’t say, but that’s beside the point), Klaus finds a way to twirl up lengths of spaghetti, swipe green polish over his toenails and keep half an eye on the television screen all at once. It’s impressive, but Ben doesn’t pop-up and applaud him, which is quite the shame. Klaus doesn’t need an audience, as such, but he certainly appreciates one.

There’s actually only one ghost who comes by for a visit— the unnerving bastard that keeps himself to the wall at which Diego’s desks sits and sneers at Klaus whenever he manages to catch his eye. Incorporeal as he is, he still looks as though he should be dripping grease. His severely parted mousy hair looks wet with it, unwashed for God knows how long before he’d kicked the bucket. Klaus’ cringing is visceral; he reminds him of some of the middle-aged men who’d leered in the corners of certain clubs, only making moves on the twinks of questionable legality. Klaus just knows he’d share their insistent clammy touch, where he currently capable of it. 

“You must be such a fucking hassle for him,” The ghost spits and though Klaus’ shoulders tense he does what he can to ignore him, jacking up the volume of the tv. The probably-paedophilic dead guy is unperturbed, unfortunately, “I wouldn’t pander to your shit, you know, I’d just get you bent over whenever it suited me. That’s what you’re good for, your sort.”

“Please,” Klaus grits around the last bite of a meatball, “Like I’d let someone as repulsive as you near me.”

The ghost drags his tongue across his teeth and the slurping sound of it is enough to put Klaus off the rest of his meal, “Wouldn’t have given you much a choice. Much of, I say, when I in fact mean any.”

_Oh how delightful, an evening in with the spirit of a rapist who liked the sound of his own slimy voice._

Gathering together all the bravery that he can muster, Klaus steadfastly refuses to look over in the desk’s direction as he pads across to the trashcan to tip out the remains of his dinner. He doesn’t even flinch when he continues onto the sink with the sense that the man is slinking up behind him. He does have to swallow hard to keep from regurgitating pasta and tomato sauce into the water he runs. 

“Are you scared of me, little Klaus?” The spirit asks, and Klaus can hear that he’s delighting in the suggestion of his distress, “Diego will be gone for a while, so there’s no one to rescue you from me, is there? Are you going to cry for him? Will he even care when he comes back? I wouldn’t be surprised if tonight is what he’s needed to remember who he was before he had to take on the fucking burden of you. Maybe he won’t come home right away, he’ll forget you’re even waiting, go out for celebratory drinks with people who don’t drain him.”

Klaus squeezes his eyes closed, but it doesn’t much help. Rather, it cloaks him in a darkness that’s inhabited by only his own shaking self and a malevolent voicing of his deepest fears. The boiler room, usually as familiar and as comfortable as Diego, becomes a new mausoleum behind his eyelids. Something even worse than that, because trapping him within this one is a ghost with much more calculated intentions than the shapeless screaming of his younger years.

The ghost licks his teeth again, readies himself to deliver another blow, “Dave dead, Diego bored, where will that leave you?”

_Alone. Again. A crushing inevitability._

Klaus doesn’t consciously slide down to the stone floor, but that’s where Ben discovers him. 

Cowering beneath a man who looks as though his mortal self had less time for personal hygiene than his corpse, Klaus is a pitiful sight. The worst Ben has seen him in a while, with his knees to his chest, chin tucked to them and his arms braced around them both to hide that he’s struggling to breathe. Ben hears it though, like a death rattle, alongside the slur-ridden insults being muttered to him, _little faggot boy never had a proper Father and his brother’s doing a shit job at filling that role for him now, far too fucking soft, so you’ll never learn. Give a junkie slut an inch and he’ll take a mile, not worth the hassle, barely worth getting your dick wet in ‘em._

“Klaus,” He calls, angling his way between the pair of them to kneel at his brother’s level, “Klaus? Come on. I’m here now, I’m here. Sorry I wasn’t sooner, but look at me. We are absolutely not letting his frankly filthy idiot sow any seeds of doubt,” Talking of which, Ben cranes his neck back to serve the other ghost in the room with a look of palpable disdain, “Kindly fuck off, thank you.” 

“Maybe we are,” Klaus rasps into his forearms, and Ben scowls, his attention right back on him—

“Klaus Hargreeves! No. None of that, please. Come on.”

“Klaus knows the truth when he hears it, don’t you boy? We’ve been having a very enlightening discussion.” 

The ghost has a sour self-satisfied smile, all curdled milk nastiness. 

“Oh for fu- Would you just shut up?” Ben growls, pulling up to his full height to turn on his brother’s tormentor, hoping he comes across as at least slightly intimidating, slunk back as he is into his dark hood. What he wouldn’t give for a tentacle to lash against a throat, “Who are you? What do you matter?”

The other ghost just smirks wider, enjoying that he’s got the hackles up of another someone. Ben quickly grows bored of him and turns to Klaus again. Who is not where Ben had expected him to be. If Ben still had a beating heart, it would have stopped and then started once he’d realised that somehow, Klaus had managed to slip off when his back had been turned and was now stuffing his feet into the flip-flops Diego made him keep at the door. 

“Klaus!” He’s already lost count of how many times he’s exclaimed his brother’s name and they’ve been together for all of fifteen minutes. It’s just like old times, “Klaus, where are you going? I’ll come with you. Maybe it’d be best if we went up to the ring?”

“Doesn’t want me to,” Klaus says sullenly before he’s heading off, uncaring as to whether Ben chases him. He can’t spend another second in that space, is all he’s able to think.

———

“You could have at least grabbed a jacket,” Ben grumbles as he keeps time with his brother’s harried steps, his own hands shoved deep into his pockets as though he can feel the chill crisping the air. This is a road they’ve walked before (though perhaps not literally— they never tended to make it over to this part of town. It’s grimy sure, but not in the way that tends to draw Klaus in). Klaus in not much more than a flimsy vest top and a bad mood.

“Remembered shoes,” He bites back, petulant as ever. Peeping out from his flip-flops, his nails are all aglow. Ben remembers being beside him when he’d lifted that particular polish from Claire’s. Good times had by all.

“True, well done. So, plan of action now we’ve absconded _with_ shoes?”

It’s a question so reasonable its irritating (Ben is a master of those), to which Klaus has no ready answer. He hadn’t got that far. There had been no grand plan. Rather than admitting this, he wastes some time digging around in his back pocket for his smokes and lights one up with his eyes dancing over everything but Ben’s concern, the side of the city he’d not seen so much of since Diego had taken him in. Unfamiliar looming brick buildings that are a grey-blue in the night, neon shop fronts flashing over split garbage bags, catching on shards of broken beer bottle glass and the cherry of his own cigarette bobbing just ahead of him, suspiciously slow moving cars casing the shadows for boys and girls that Klaus probably knows by name.

Spectres of sad people who came to unfortunate ends wailing at him from stoops and alleyways, or in one horrifying case, the dead centre of the main road. 

He needs a drink. 

Ben’s face is still too soft with concern, and yeah, Klaus _needs_ a drink, something with that’ll snake down his throat to coil as a burn in his belly. Something strong enough to dial back the volume of the dead. 

Flicking his thumbnail against the dampened end of his cigarette, he squints further into the gloom towards a bodega, “That place look open to you?” 

Ben doesn’t like the lilt to his voice, the obviously feigned causality. Klaus is too jittery for it to be genuine. 

“Klaus…” He begins (and how many times has he repeated his name now?), but his brother is already picking up his pace with the single-minded determination of an addict after a fix and Ben can’t very well reach out and catch his wrist to drag him back, “Klaus, don’t make any stupid decisions, bro.”

Unfaltering, with his mind made up, Klaus drops his half-finished cigarette and shoulders his way into the corner store, tinny bell jingling behind him. Ben continues to keep close to his heels, his beat-less heart sinking. 

“Let’s just grab some candy and head back? Diego’s favourites are still Mars bars, yeah?”

Obediently, Klaus swipes a Mars bar and shoves it into his back pocket but he has further intentions and they’re shelved behind the check-out. Brashly lit by dead fly dotted fluorescents. 

“You don’t want to do this, don’t let that greasy shit stain make you,” Ben tries again, but it's a fruitless endeavour; Klaus, of course, always wants to do _this_. His every waking moment is a complicated pattern of gel pen scrawled reminders, therapy sessions and Diego patiently taking him in-hand to redirect his neediness, to keep his relapsing into _this_ at bay. It’s still as easily undone as a silk ribbon. 

Setting a ragged twenty dollar note down in front of the bored-looking store assistant, Klaus leans elbows first onto the sticky counter and tries on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes, “Whatever vodka I can get for this, dude. Uh, please, thanks.”

They step out again with another trill of the bell and a litre bottle of something Russian in Klaus’ grasp, already uncapped. 

His _goodbye_ hand tips it at his mouth.

———

Beyond the initial hit of pure adrenaline, Diego had never actually enjoyed any of his wins. This he remembers as he bows out beneath the ropes to a clamouring of hands and chanting that’s far too reminiscent of the crowds Reginald would arrange in order to make a spectacle of his murderous wards. It’s a suffocating feeling, a spotlight of expectations he doesn’t really want to live up to; the othering of being all at once unobtainable and property that’s fucked him up for life. He’d be happy to leave his victory right where he won it, in the final swing of his fist. Everything that follows is fuss and frippery.

Still, he’s polite as he disentangles himself from his own congratulatory party, shakes all of the right hands and accepts a kiss on the cheek from the current squeeze of the gym’s promoter.

“Thanks, guys, yeah thanks,” He speaks through a forced smile as he drags a towel over his shoulders before pulling on his hoodie, “No, I won’t make out for drinks tonight— got a family thing, bad timing I know. Actually, need to rush back and shower and get ready for that now, they won’t appreciate if I turn up sweaty as shit. Probably need to get some pain pills in me too, ha. No man, definitely, beers soon? Pass on those details to me about that match you mentioned, the charity one? Okay guys gotta get goin’!”

Klaus is family so he hadn’t lied as such, is what Diego tells himself as he makes his way down to his basement home— besides, had he not earned a quiet night in (and maybe some kissing of his injuries, minor as they seemed)? A shared shower followed by two chipped mugs of the fragrant Sleepytime tea Luther of all people had got them in to.

Diego’s domestic intentions are ripped out from beneath him by the jarring angle at which the door to the boiler room sits.

_No. Shit. He leaves the kid alone for one night and—_

“Little one?” He calls, though he’s already palming the knife he’d smuggled up to the gym in his hoodie pocket and pressing close to open door to peer past it, mapping out each element of his room and assessing whether anything seems amiss. The television is still playing, though it’s skipped back to the opening screen, and there’s the unwashed Tupperware tub in the sink. He doesn’t sense any immediate danger, and he’s developed a nose for it that rarely see him wrong, but he doesn’t let the knife go as he slips inside, “Klaus, are you in bed baby? Did you just accidentally leave the door open? Oh…shit.”

His noticing that Klaus’ flip-flops are not in their spot only confirms the worst for Diego. 

“Oh Klaus, do not do this to me,” He exhales as he snatches up his car keys and storms right back out again, riding another surge of that winner’s adrenaline, “You best have just had a candy craving, for fuck’s sake. Please, baby boy.”

———

Though it’s been a while since Diego has had to drive through the night working as a one-man search party for his little brother, he easily slips back into the role that, for a time, had been their primary connection. Diego would coast through Klaus’ known haunts whenever had the time to— sometimes just keeping an eye on him from afar, occasionally intervening when need be. Somehow, Klaus always allowed his interference in a way that he wouldn’t have with any of their other siblings (except of course for his constant companion, Ben). He never quite reached out, but Klaus had his own ways and means of finding himself in Diego’s space and borrowing the security of it for a bit.

Which he has as a promise now, at all times— except for when he runs away, it would seem. 

With his hands painfully tight around the steering wheel (an attempt at keeping himself centred), Diego’s eyes carefully skip back and forth between the road and the overspill of any shadows wherein his brother could be hiding. He even turns his police scanner on for the first time in weeks, though he prays that it’s not actually an official report that leads him to Klaus; the old familiar fear that he’ll hear Klaus’ description coded with something he’ll never recover from. That neither of them will.

“C’mon, kiddo,” He begs, looping back around a corner he’d taken once before and slowing to a snail’s pace, “Let ‘Ego find you, sweetheart, let’s sort this out, get you sorted— oh, my little one, there you are.”

Sat criss-cross applesauce at the base of a flickering streetlamp, Klaus looks every inch the little boy Diego hadn’t wanted him to be, out on the streets on his own. Appearing all the more vulnerable to anyone who might do him harm and _god_ , if that doesn’t slam Diego harder in the stomach than any of his boxing opponents punches had managed. He’s winded by it. This hadn’t been his worry when he’d been avoiding every match that he could, but he knows now that it should have been. 

“Coming now, just you wait,” He mutters as he swerves up against the sidewalk and wrestles his way out of his seatbelt, “You silly, tiny thing, what were you thinking, hey?”

Enough cars have sped by that the skid of Diego’s tires and his engine powering down doesn’t startle Klaus, but Diego’s figure suddenly towering above him does. He jumps near out of his skin, fingernails scraping against the pavement below him as he attempts to push himself further back against the streetlamp. 

“It’s Diego, it’s Diego bro,” Ben whispers from where’s also sat like a school kid beside him, “Look up, it’s your boyfriend. He found you, told you he would.”

“But he’ll be mad,” Klaus whispers back to the seemingly empty space Ben is currently taking up, sounding genuinely fearful and _fucking hell_ , just baby small. 

Diego guesses at who he's addressing, and he’s grateful for their brother for sticking so close with his boy. He’ll thank him via Klaus when the time is right. _Hey, erm, it was cool when you stepped in to babysit our brother, yo_.

“Gosh, my little one, I’ve been looking for you,” He says as gently as he can, first dropping down to one knee, and then both, once he’s sure Klaus will cope with the closer proximity, “What happened here, hey? You didn’t want to wait in to find out I won?”

 _Oh?_ Klaus can’t help himself then, he lifts his head to get a proper look at Diego and congratulate him, but he makes for a sorry sight and Diego’s interrupting him before he can get his words out—

“Klaus! Shit! How did you face get all busted baby? Did someone hurt you?”

Of course, there’s a knife in his pocket still, but Diego wishes he’d thought to grab his whole well-stocked harness before making a run for his car. It’s a rookie error that he has never made before when if anything, Klaus taking priority should make him less soft rather than more so. Klaus’ reliance on him isn’t something he takes lightly. Even if he is feeling as though he’s failed him right now— with his saucer-wide eyes so scared as they peer up at him.

The boy whose safety is in question shakes his head meekly, shamefully, “No, no, don’t worry. I-I tripped, I tripped over, but I…well I fell hard. Skidded, stupid flip-flops.”

(Klaus doesn’t mention that he’d dropped his half-full bottle of vodka in his haste and that there was the sting of minuscule glass shards embedded in both of his tattooed palms.)

He is sickly pale in the failing glow of the streetlamp, but there are garish splashes of crimson smeared wetly at his parted mouth and at his temple, under his mussed up half-curls. Assumedly thanks to the skidding, there is also an angry road rash is scraped across his cheek, flecks of gravel still tacked to his tear-sticky skin; a little like the silver glitter he wears sometimes. He’s the prettiest wounded thing Diego has ever seen and he sort of wants to kiss the blood right from his boy’s lips. 

_Fuck_ but he’ll be bruised up all floral, pink, yellow and violet, come the morning time.

With some difficulty, Diego swallows the guilt-laced urge to have their mouths meet. It’d be irresponsible, especially with him not knowing what sort of damage might be lurking under the red gloss of it.

“Silly boy,” He finds himself humming as he rids himself of his own hoodie, leaving himself topless. It’s far too cold for it (and it nips at the sweat on him), but they’ll be in the car soon, and as he comes around from his shock, Klaus is beginning to shiver, “Come one, let’s get this on you and get you home. I’ll carry you, okay? I’m here now. I have some questions, but don’t you worry, I just want you safe, my little boy.”

Sometimes, Klaus becomes even younger than usual. More fragile. He settles into silences interrupted only by soft sobbing, clings with grasping fingers and needs indoor voices and calm. Diego gives him that there, out on the street which is empty other than for them and the spectres only Klaus can see; is extra careful as he eases him into the sweatshirt and scoops him up into a bearlike hold. The boy pliantly tucked up into his bare chest is a million miles from the smirking man who’d prowled across to his lap and insisted he punch another guy until he dropped. Diego's muscles protest, tired from the fight, but he ignores them and gives Klaus the cuddle he’d been waiting on since he’d exited the ring.

“Got you now, no more running in the opposite direction to me, please?” He requests, almost as though Klaus had just darted towards a different store at the mall. They’ll address the severity of it all when his hurts have been properly soothed, “You’re safe.”

As Diego had expected, Klaus says nothing at all as he belts him into the front passenger seat and brushes a kiss to the top of his head. There’s a far-away glaze to his eyes and Diego’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’s as intoxicated as he is suffering from anything emotional. There’s no room for anger though, just more concern.

“My sweet boy, think we hit a bit of a hurdle, didn’t we?” He murmurs, only one hand on the wheel as he drives now, the other scratching idly at Klaus’ scalp, “Was I a bad big brother, leaving you alone with some not very nice thoughts?”

With a pained whimper, Klaus brings an arm up to hide behind, twisting towards the door so that Diego won’t see that he’s starting to cry. It’s a childish thing, not quite understanding that Diego will be able to read the evidence in front of him. Diego can’t keep from smiling across at his brother for it.

“Almost home, kiddo. I’m going to have to patch you up, but then you can go to bed and we’ll find you some good dreams. Tonight’s been more of a nightmare, eh?”

Speaking for the first time in what seems like hours but has really been no more than ten minutes, Klaus peeps back over his own shoulder to whisper, voice raspy, “Paci?”

The pacifier is new, had come sometime after the lidded cup and Bowie bunny, as though Klaus had needed to gear himself up for asking for it. Diego hadn’t hesitated in getting him what he wanted, of course. There are actually two of them, they glow in the dark like Klaus’ painted toenails and live in a plastic pot kept in one of the boiler room’s cupboards. 

“We’ll see baby, maybe not tonight if it’s going to hurt your little cut lip anymore, hey? But you can have extra snuggles. We’re both a bit achy tonight, I think, but sacrifices must be made for tiny angels.”

Klaus’ nod is hesitant and Diego recognises him trying to be a bigger boy about the compromise.

“Good boy, just let me look after you right now. You settle down for me now and then when you’ve had some rest, we can figure things out in the morning. We’re only two minutes from home.”


	5. rust and stardust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's currently 1.37 am, and I've just final drafted the last part of this after coming home from a late shift, so I feel there might be regrets come tomorrow. Fingers crossed it all reads as it should. Again, this feels hugely self-indulgent, but here we are- the hope is that if I like it at least a few others will. 
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with these boys and leaving me some really encouraging feedback, it genuinely means the world for my confidence and my desire to continue!

Eyes owlish and his voice not much more than exhalation, Klaus’ timid whisper of _home?_ as Diego draws to a halt in his usual parking spot outside of the gym is almost unreadable.

“Home,” Diego confirms, his voice as equally as gentle as he carefully watches for Klaus’ response. Since they were yet to get to the crux of the reasons Klaus had for bolting from the basement, Diego couldn’t be sure of how negative or positive it might be. 

When it comes, it’s the slightest thing, just a twitch of a nod. Neutral if anything, which is a start, Diego supposes. Anything less than that, and he’d have turned them around and headed to the mansion for the night.

A sense of calm had settled its self over them for the last of their journey and neither seemed to want to pierce it too suddenly; indeed, had Klaus’ injuries not needed tending to, Diego would have been tempted to cruise around the block a time or two more to lull his boy to sleep. He’d had a friend on the force who’d admitted to doing so with her baby at three am, and wasn’t Klaus his baby? Between the steady rumble of the engine and being swaddled by Diego’s soft sweatshirt, Klaus had already gotten part way there. Calmed, his secretive sobs hadn’t lasted for very long before they had evened right out to a more subdued, sleepy breathing. Helped along with some shushing and Diego’s calloused hand curled to his neck, thumb petting behind his ear, following the thrumming of his pulse. 

Undeniably, Klaus was still sad but perhaps, just a touch less so. Diego could hope. 

“Are you ready to go inside, little one?”

Worrying his sore lip with a bitten thumbnail, Klaus skips his gaze back and forth between the gloomy outline of the gym building beyond his window and his big brother, who is expectant but patient, “H-have to carry,” He decides after a few more contemplative seconds. “Please?”

Diego’s smile for him is the most smitten thing, soppy in a way that Diego so rarely is for the rest of the world, “Oh, of course. I was intending to do just that.” He’ll need to book in for a sports massage in the very near future, between his boxing match and his carrying about of Klaus, but it’s worth it. 

Once he’s been unbuckled and gathered up into Diego’s arms, Klaus clings like a baby koala bear, with his thighs vice tight at the other’s waist and his least hurt cheek tucked snug to his shoulder, all tear sticky cheeks and sodden lashes fluttering against Diego’s neck. He’ll leave a smear of snot behind, no doubt, but _fuck it_ , Diego’s too far gone to care. Really, he’s had to get a tissue to little Klaus’ nose a time or two and instruct him to blow so he’s officially beyond finding anything related to stuffy noses gross. 

As far as his Klaus is concerned, at least.

“You’re my best boy, have I mentioned that recently?” He asks conversationally (it seems like Klaus may need reminding), one arm securing Klaus to him and the other smoothing circles over his back, doing what if can to ease the knots he finds there as he pads them across from his car to the basement entrance.

Klaus, _god bless him_ , returns the gesture by rubbing insistently at the taught muscles between Diego’s shoulders (using only the very tips of his fingers, to keep from grinding any glass further into his palms), “Nu-uh,” He frowns, “your _only_ boy, ‘Ego, remember? Up in the Academy attic, you said. Your only best a-and also, also your bravest.” Klaus sounds entirely unsure of the latter statement— he feels the furthest thing from it. ’Ego, on the other hand, _is_ undeniably fearless and he’s keeping him tight to his broad chest, safe from harm. 

“Oh yes! How could I have forgotten?” Diego gasps dramatically, “I won’t again,” He adds, a sincere promise, as he hoists Klaus higher to keep from dropping him (with just a slight grunt), fishing out his key from the pocket of his shorts and jamming it into the lock. 

Klaus is on the cusp of a giggle until the door swings open and he instead goes tense all over. The squeal of laughter dies in his throat, sinks down to his belly as a dead weight. Then he’s on high-alert, lithe body rigid with it. The change that comes over him so suddenly doesn’t fill Diego with an awful lot of confidence. Was there something entirely obvious he’d missed when scoping the place for danger? He doubted it, he had a very specific skill set after all. Just in case, Diego sneaks the compact knife out from the front pouch of the hoodie Klaus is now wearing (mentally scolding himself for leaving a blade within reach of a baby, _for fuck’s sake_ ), but there’s really no need. As he’d assumed, the boiler room is entirely void of people— other than themselves, hovering unsure in the doorway. 

At a bit of a loss, he opts for soothing Klaus as you might when reassuring a child that you’d banished the eight-eyed monster from beneath their bed, “Nothing can get you, okay? Not when I’m here. I’m going to carry you inside, baby, and we’ll keep cuddling until you’re ready for me to check you over.”

It takes time, enough that Diego has to switch the other across to his opposite hip and twist his arm out to keep it from burning, but after a little patience and a lot of rhythmic swaying, Klaus taps at his shoulder with only some reluctance.

“Can-can look now, at my hurtings,” He says and as he’s still holding him tightly, Diego feels Klaus’ chest inflate with the sheer effort of his being a brave boy, definitely slipping further than Diego has any memory of him doing before. Not that he panics, he’ll manage; Klaus is never very difficult really, at least not to the extent that everyone else would have him believe. He is a good boy and Diego doesn’t know where to put all of his pride.

“Yeah? Thank you,” He murmurs as he lowers Klaus onto their rumpled bed, almost having to force himself to set him down, “Gosh, tonight has been a big one for us both,” _Understatement of the fucking decade there_ , “but you’re doing so well for me.”

Diego can at least say, with relief, that Klaus looks a lot healthier caught in the glow of the bedside lamp— far more so than he had out on the street where everything had been dimmed down to murky greyscale. The yellow of it warms him through, coaxing out the hint of pale gold that Diego often catches sitting, shimmering, just below his skin. 

(It also makes the red of the blood staining his face far more vivid, so it is admittedly something of a catch twenty-two.)

“I bet that’s starting to itch, huh? Can I get to cleaning you up so I can get a look at what’s happening underneath all of the icky stuff? I’m going to need to grab some supplies but look, Bowie has been waiting for you. He’s going to be your nurse while ‘Ego is your doctor, okay?” Diego scoops up the much-cherished bunny from where he’d been flopped over on the pillow and props him up ever so carefully in Klaus’ lap, “He’s going to sit with you for a minute now, but I won’t leave this room.”

The tip of Bowie’s ear finds its way into Klaus’ mouth so that he can suckle at it, and Klaus’ wide, solemn eyes track each of Diego’s movements with absolute precision, but his big brother stays true to his word. It’s important he does, as it had been noted on Klaus’ list, _always follow through so I know where I stand_. Under Klaus’ watch, he fills a bowl with warm water and then fetches a package of cotton pads and his faithful first aid kit— one which he’d snatched from the Academy infirmary and kept well stocked ever since. Before Klaus, there’d not been a week that had gone by without him needing to utilise it at least once. He was as much of an expert with a splint or surgical tape as Mom these days.

Still, he’s not as precious about himself as he is Klaus. None of his own scars are all that neat. 

“Right. I really don’t want to hurt you,” Diego says, guiding his little brother’s legs apart so that he can kneel between the open V of them, “So you have to tell me if you need me to pause, okay? Use your words for me.”

And so begins a painstakingly slow process. 

Gnawing on his lip (exactly as he always tells Klaus tells not to do), Diego steadies the other with a gentle hand to his jaw and angles him further towards the lamp, so that he can get a proper look at what he’s working with. Lord. He shouldn’t think so, it’s so sadistic of him, but he finds Klaus ethereally beautiful like this. He’s otherworldly. All rust and stardust; brush strokes of darkening scarlet threaded through with tear tracks and a scattering of silver-grey grit, his eyes huge and as brittle as green sea glass. 

Klaus is his, a little bit broken but trusting in Diego to find the right fix. A waltz they’ve now danced at least a dozen times choreographed to their strengths and weaknesses.

“Just a baby, huh?” He hums and _oh_ , how Klaus keens for him, for the acknowledgement of just how very small and vulnerable he is in that moment, “I got you, little one. Your big brother’s going to make it all better.”

Klaus’ stupidly pretty face crumples beneath Diego’s administrations, no matter how delicate he tries to keep his touch with the soaked cotton pads. He’s only dabbing at his wounds, dutifully swapping out to a new pad each time the one he’s using becomes stained, but Klaus pouts out his bottom lip and hisses each time the wet cotton swipes across his scraped skin. He fully flinches when Diego has to rub with more force where the blood has congealed and caked and Diego feels as though he’s morphed into the monster lurking under the bed.

They’re cruel sometimes, the necessities that come with taking care of Klaus. 

With a coo of sympathy, he rises on his haunches so that he can drop a kiss to the top of his boy’s bowed head, “I know, I know, but it needs to be done. I’ll let you have your paci afterwards.” Bribery works wonders and Diego doesn’t feel all that bad about it, not when Klaus lifts his head to blink-blink-blink his shiny eyes at him—

“‘kay, ‘Ego.”

It takes a steady hand to keep from re-opening any of the cuts that are revealed as the mess is cleaned away, but Diego is determined, and really, they’re reassuringly superficial, he finds. Lips bleed out a lot with only the slightest knock. There’s nothing there that will scar. It’s more likely that they’ll have scabbed over by the morning. However, they do still need disinfecting, and Diego pauses before uncapping the tube of ointment he has—

 _Cruel to be kind_ , he reminds himself. 

“Little one, this will sting, I won’t lie to you. Can you be my courageous boy?”

Klaus answers with another of his hesitant nods. 

“You make me so proud, you know that?”

The tears that fall when Diego smears the witch hazel-infused cream over Klaus' scrapes are entirely expected and Diego leaves them be. Unless it becomes too hysterical, he rarely dissuades the other from crying; there’s a certain something in the peach that colours the tip of his nose, the quiver to his lips and the subtly salty taste Diego kisses from his cheeks; the familiar weight of him when he falls forwards to nuzzle childishly into Diego and soak his shoulder.

He remembers watching Klaus cry when they’d both been but children, still trussed up in short trousers and umbrella embroidered blazers. He’d scowled, back then— at both the disallowed weakness Klaus was showing so openly, and also for the spark of his own confusing desire: the incomprehensible urge he had to battle to keep from skimming the pads of his fingers through the wet flow of Klaus’ sobbing, to cradle him and swallow the utterly despondent noises he would make. 

The aching need he had for him to _just shut up, please, Four_ so that Reginald couldn’t use it as ammunition. 

So. Let the boy cry. _Fuck it_. Let him convulse with it, where he’s safe and loved.

Once he seems to have settled some, Diego brushes his swollen knuckles up through Klaus’ dishevelled hair. Guides his head back until their eyes can meet properly, “Hey? You with me, kiddo? Have you got any more sore bits that I need to see?”

Shrugging back the baggy sleeves of Diego’s hoodie, Klaus nervously presents his hands to the other man. Palms up in offering, so that Diego can see where his _hello_ and _goodbye_ are dusty and speckled with blood, “Gl-glass got here,” He whispers, “No shouting? But… but I dropped it—”

“What did you drop, baby?”

“Vodka. Dropped it when I f-fell, and it all…” Klaus flexes his fingers and winces, “it got in here.”

“Okay, thank you for telling me.” Diego, of course, is as much referring to Klaus’ admittance to breaking his sobriety as he is his damaged hands. Another something he’d have to come back to. 

First things first, though. The tweezing out of each fragment of glass is a tedious task. Diego has to sink down until he’s sat cross-legged, just as he’d found the other, wrap firm fingers around Klaus’ wrists and lift his hands until they’re barely an inch away from his nose. The damn tattoos, of which he is usually rather fond, still muddy what he can see of the damage beneath them and he hates himself every time he accidentally pinches at tender flesh rather than glass. 

_Little ouija board boy, whatever will I do with you?_

(The answer, without doubt, is to keep him forever and do this whenever it needs doing.)

As he works, Diego drops each freed shard of the bottle into the bowel of water and the blood infuses through it like marbling ink; Klaus distracts himself as much as he can by watching the blooms and swirls of it.

“Right, this is the last one, I’m pretty sure,” Diego is eventually able to say. Unfortunately, it’s also the piece that’s stuck deepest and Diego has to dig right into Klaus’ heart line to ease it out. When it comes away it’s an evil, jagged thing, shark tooth sharp and slicked with gore, “God, I’m sorry baby boy, that wasn’t too nice was it?” 

“H-hurts, but I’m okay, I’m okay,” Klaus assures his big brother, ducking to knock their foreheads together as he swallows down a good lungful of air, “Fanks, ‘Ego.”

Cleaning follows, as does the application of more ointment ( _ow ‘Ego, ow-owww_ ) and the methodical wrapping of snowy white gauze around Klaus’ poor hands. Said hands manage to get everywhere and into everything, whether their owner is big or small, and so keeping them protected is a must. Dirt in wounds, never a plan. Once he’s satisfied, Diego kisses both sets of bandages and finally, _fucking finally_ , Klaus finds the first curve of a smile for him. _Christ_ , Diego could weep for it. It’s like coming face-to-face with a portrait by one of the old masters, framed on the wall of a European gallery.

He immediately beams back, “Hey, I’ve missed you!” And thumbs against the corner of Klaus’ timid grin, not wanting to let it droop again, “You know what, I think if you made this a little wider, there might be a reward in it for you.”

Reward? Klaus’ head cocks like that of a well-trained puppy. Eager for a treat, eager to please his way to it. Everything about him brightens for it. Diego doesn’t expect it to work as the final fix, but it’s something. 

“Yeah baby, reward! But I’ll need to see an even bigger smile for it.”

Diego’s carefully chosen tone of voice, his favoured _let’s get the kiddo to a good place_ one, never fails to make Klaus feel fuzzy-edged and good and he can’t not comply, “Look see, bigger. Bowie says do I get my reward now?”

 _Shit, but he is an actual cherub._ (And yeah, Diego is whipped, what of it?)

After a nasty mouth injury of his own, Diego had bought a big box of ice pops and dumped them in his freezer box to eventually become forgotten amongst spillages from open bags of peas and a couple of crappy microwave meals. Their wrappings are frosted over, but thankfully, they’re still in date. After some deliberation, he chooses one in an especially unhealthy looking electric turquoise hue, snips of its top, and returns to present it to Klaus with a flourish, producing it from behind his back as though it’s something far more impressive than a tube of E-number-riddled ice. 

If the wiggling and grabby bandaged hands are anything to go by, Klaus couldn’t have been more thrilled had he been presented with a thousand dollar cheque and _god_ , Diego does love him. Really, genuinely, to an extent that he’s never been sure about letting himself reach before. It’s not an effortless relationship, but it is steeped with rewards for Diego, too. Number Four is his little oxymoron— his bittersweet boy, all fading track marks and pure unbridled joy for a bright blue popsicle. 

Diego has to curl his fingers painfully into his own palms to keep from squeezing him until he passes out.

He also has to busy himself by hunting down some clean pyjama pants because he is certainly no saint and Klaus really revels in his ice pop. He definitely should not linger on it, it's not the time, but Diego can’t help himself. What else is he to do, when he catches the way Klaus follows up a particularly sensuous suck by languidly lapping at the tang of the juice of it from his bottom lip, not seeming to care about the cut sliced through it.

“Careful,” He hears himself call out and Klaus flicks big, innocent eyes over to him, the ice pop slipping from between his plush lips-

“But it’s numb now, ‘Ego.”

_Christ, half the time Klaus isn’t even intentional… but he’s so…_

Pyjamas tossed unceremoniously onto the pillows, Diego climbs up onto the bed beside Klaus and invades his space. Tucking his hand up under his own hoodie, he lays claim to the boy who has sunk into its folds, spreading his fingers possessively over the warm, tight tummy he finds, “Can I have a kiss, then?”

He’s prepared for the boy to answer with a _no_ , which he’s always allowed to do, but Klaus just manages another perfect grin for him. 

“You can have two!” He chirps back, and without pause, Diego takes them both greedily; adores the boyish sloppiness of them as he swallows the sour taste of the popsicle from Klaus’ tongue. Raspberry flavour, apparently. 

“Thanks, baby,” He murmurs and as they fall apart, he bites off a chunk of the popsicle to make the other squawk, “Nice to see you smiling, pretty boy. We have to talk some more though, will that be okay? I’m going to change you into jammies and then we can have a little chat before I put you to bed.”

Something unsure flits across Klaus’ face, but Diego just has to knead at his belly again to ease it. “You just finish your ice pop, little one, I got this,” He assures him as he goes about undoing the fastenings of Klaus’ jeans and begins peeling them from his legs. It never fails to be intoxicating, how much of a placid boy Klaus becomes under even Diego’s least demanding touches. Diego would be a liar if he claimed to have never used it to his advantage. He’s definitely manhandled Klaus just to get him to shush before; five minutes peace and all that. Big brothers also have needs.

Now is no different. Laying back, all sweetness and serenity, with his eyes drifting across the damp stains on the ceiling, Klaus uses his dexterous little fingers to push the last of the ice pop into his mouth and then rolls it around his tongue as Diego drags the second-skin denim of his jeans from his bony feet. Baring his legs reveals more grazes on his knees, but they’re nothing more than the sort that come with playground spills. Still, Diego dips to pepper them with affectionate kisses and Klaus cranes up to get a look—

“More hurts!” He exclaims, sounding all of three years old in his alarm, “‘Ego, want band-aids.” 

Klaus' mouth is stained blue, Diego notices. “Hm?” He arches a brow at him, “Is that how we ask for things?”

 _Oops, nope._ “Band-aids, please?”

 _Band-aids make me happy_ , of all things, was something else Klaus had noted down on his list. Unexpected but also pretty damn cute. Now there exists a hot pink package of Disney Princess ones in the first-aid kit, something that Klaus had found in a bargain bin and begged for, as though Diego could deny him a ninety-nine cense box of anything at all. For the life of him, Diego can’t name the princesses, but he smooths a blonde lady over Klaus’ left knee, and a black haired one over his right and Klaus is immensely satisfied with his choices.

“‘Punzel and Jasmine! Thank you!”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Diego makes easy work of helping Klaus into his silky pyjamas pants and then scooping him up to place him in his lap once he’s sat at the head of the bed, “You ready for our talk now?”

“Oh. Not really,” Klaus mumbles his admittance into his Diego’s chest, but he stays cradled close, letting the other pet his hair and scrape his nails beneath it in that way of his that never fails to send a burst of warming tingles right down Klaus’ spine. ‘Ego is an expert at all things me, he thinks, which is a relief because Klaus feels pretty clueless more often than he should, _adulting is hard_ and all that. “But um, you want the story?”

“Please, baby boy.”

“B-bowie?” 

It’s something of a delay tactic— like his last _last_ pee before bed— but Diego doesn’t deny him it. He hands him the toy, and a mollified Klaus begins. 

———

When big, Klaus Hargreeves is a most remarkable wordsmith, falling somewhere between Shakespeare (the poetry of it) and Dennis Cooper (the often questionable content) and magnetic once he gets to weaving his yarns. Little Klaus is no less captivating for his audience of one, but it all tends to tumble out of him in a bit of a muddle as he struggles to sift between minor and more major details. Throughout his rambling explanation of how he’d ended up with a bits of vodka bottle embedded in his hands, Diego remains unwaveringly patient— these are things he needs to know and rushing Klaus so that he becomes even more confused won’t help either of them. As Klaus speaks, Diego’s searches him for any signs of imminent breakdown, but his boy holds himself together impressively.

“You’re doing well, baby,” He assures him, nudging a proud kiss to the side of his head, “Can I just check a few things? To make sure I’m understanding. There’s a ghost who hangs around in my room and he threatened you tonight? Made accusations regarding our relationship? Is he still in here now?”

After a split-second glance at the desk, Klaus shakes his head, “No, I-I think because you are. M-maybe the vodka, too. Sorry. But I’ve seen him before, just-just he’s never talked to me. Not ’til he knew I was on my own, ‘Ego.”

It’s not mentioned in order to shame Diego for leaving, Klaus had been the one to persuade him to agree to the fight after all, but he can’t help the squirm of guilt in his stomach. He’s horrified by the statements made by the ghost that Klaus manages to relay for him through a nervous stammer, not dissimilar to Diego’s own. _How fucking dare he?_ Corporeal bastards Diego could control effortlessly, but spirits were not his domain. Blades couldn’t kill the already deceased, more’s the pity.

“Would you comfortable with me making a new rule right now, sweetness?” He asks, trying another tool in his arsenal, one he couldn’t just slip into his harness; he needs to be able to do more, because as much as Klaus is found and cosy now, he can’t risk that not being the case should this happen for a second time. Klaus is breakable— he’s strong, too, he’s spirited and reckless, intelligent and beautiful and bold, but there are one too many hairline cracks for Diego not to see the flip side of it all, where he’s far too fragile. He can't help but think they all should have considered bubble wrapping him much earlier. 

Klaus’ answering nod is easy with trust. Diego's there now, for real, and he's making amends.

“Okay. So, our new rule— you are not to stay here alone. You can visit Vanya’s place, or Mom and the others at the mansion, but this boiler room is off limits if you’re without me. Deal? I don’t even mean for just little Klaus, because you were a big boy when he harassed you, yes? I won’t have you harassed here, this should be a home for you.”

There’s no delay to Klaus’ appreciative murmur of, “Okay, ‘Ego. That’s… yeah, that’s a good rule. Thank you.”

“Just doing my job, little one. Now, you weren’t in little space when you left, were you? Which is good, from what you’ve said, that didn’t come about until you hurt yourself and slipped, which was an accident, baby, so don’t worry,” That was another rule— no going outside as a kid without a responsible adult— “But before that, you did purchase alcohol, and I am disappointed in that particular action, because you had been doing so well, darling. You know that it would usually result in a punishment, don’t you? But I think you’ve been through enough tonight, so we’re instead going to agree to draw a line under your mistake and begin again tomorrow. Clean slate. You want to be sober, don’t you? We wouldn’t be where we are now if you’d not come to me for that reason.”

“I know, ‘Ego. I just-… ‘Ego, It’s so hard sometimes— when they scream.” He winces as if the ghosts are echoing in his ears, “The one outside, in the road, she was screaming and screaming at me and she wouldn’t stop, and Ben was trying to distract me but…” 

Klaus can picture her perfectly still, the poor lady who’d cracked his resolve. The vintage cut of her dress, her bedraggled blonde hair and the gore of her swinging jaw as she demanded to know the whereabouts of her long-dead twin sons. 

Beneath chemical-laced raspberries, he can also still taste the shots of vodka that had just about willed her away. 

Diego is brimming with yet more ideas, images of calendars, of charts and cartoon stickers running away from him, but it’s not the time to propose them. Story time over (and the sugar high from the popsicle having passed), Klaus has wilted with exhaustion in his lap, the last of his energy expended on explanations and apologies, on a heaping of guilt, too. Seeing him so spent, Diego doesn’t even have the heart to insist he brushes his teeth, not with how gratefully Klaus’ eyelids drop as he nestles into his big brother’s bicep with a lovely, breathy baby boy yawn. 

With perfect timing, Diego reaches for the pacifier he’d secreted onto the bedside table earlier in the night. He slides the bulb of it onto Klaus’ kitten tongue mid-yawn so that its nestled comfortably when his mouth closes again. Though he’s still a little coy about sucking on it openly, Klaus preens for the pacifier, twists himself further into Diego to smush his nose into his collarbone and hug him earnestly. (Diego’s really starting to feel his own aches, but he lets him because the dull pain of it almost feels positive.)

Diego’s never had a shred of interest in pacifiers before, there’s never been a reason for them to hit his radar (did they even have them as kids? Probably, if for no other reason that Reggie wanting to shut them up) but there’s something about how soothed Klaus is by his. It’s different to when he takes Diego’s thumb, in that it isn’t a prelude to anything more than innocent bliss, the promise of contented sleep. It has Diego considering how he uses this space they’ve carved out together to cope, as much as anything; has him wondering about the little boy things Klaus might do when Diego’s not around.

When he’s had his fill of watching the boy settle himself, of all his snuffles and lazy wiggles, he switches off the lamp and the star-dotted button of the pacifier glows from where it’s bobbing gently between puckered lips. Klaus’ toenails do, too, until Diego pulls the blankets up over them. It might be the sweetest thing Diego’s ever seen.

“Got you,” He assures the almost-asleep boy in his arms, having to work his words through his own yawn, “I’m here still, not giving up on you. Sweet dreams, we’ll begin again tomorrow.”

A different kind of fight.


	6. let's shed sunlight on the situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this got out of control, didn't it? I blame my poor mental health and a desperate need for escapism. I've lost all sense of whether this is even well-written or coherent now. It's not quite what I wanted but it does finally exist. It took a long time because my work schedule got heavy... and just. Excuses? Idk. I probably need a Diego of my own.
> 
> This chapter is a) particularly long and b) especially age play heavy and c) decently filthy.

The morning after they night before, they opt to eat breakfast out. The boiler room cupboards are practically bare, and when Klaus wakes still as soft and needy as he’d been when having his blood cleaned up, Diego worries that he’ll go floating off like a helium balloon without a good meal settled in his little belly. Something more satisfying than the ghastly Luck Charms he favours, usually scoped to his mouth straight from the box, marshmallows first. And _okay_ , Klaus’ order of waffles and syrup with a tall glass of strawberry milk isn’t much better but Diego does manage to get a few forkfuls of his own huevos rancheros into him. 

Somehow, Klaus is an angel about it, parting his lips every time Diego moves to feed him and making contented mmm sounds around actual goddamn protein and vegetables. Diego jots down a mental nose: _if you feed him, he’ll eat proper. Miracles never cease._

To accompany his milk, Klaus is given a curly straw by the kind-eyed granny of a waitress and when he grins impishly around it, Diego’s heart stutters through a chant of _fond fond fond_. He thumbs against the tip of his boy’s nose as he takes a sip and exhales harshly when Klaus brings up a slender shoulder to duck in against, coy as anything under his brother’s ministrations. The bridge of his nose becomes dusted with the same pink as his drink and Klaus doesn’t blush for just anybody. 

(He isn’t _little_ for just anybody, either. Diego is his special someone in a more solid sense than he has ever been before, for anyone, even Eudora.)

“My good boy, how do your hurts feel?”

Klaus is in a skirt, the fluted hem of which hit just above his knees, and Diego knows that beneath their table his Disney Princess band-aids will be showing. It makes him feel rather protective— admittedly possessive, too. _My knees_ , some entirely embarrassing part of him growls; he’s the one that had to kiss them better, gets to feel them hooked around his waist when Klaus needs a carry, he knows to tickle the backs of them to coax out fits of the giggles.

“Umm, they’re okay,” Klaus shrugs again, trying not to make too much of a fuss as he absently ghosts his fingertips against the scuff on his cheek. It’s bruised now too, underneath, a watercolour wash of lavender and lemon. “Strawberry milk helps.” He adds, with a childishly wise nod, “How are yours ‘Ego?”

Diego hadn’t done a great job of disguising it when he’d woken up stiff and sore after not giving himself any proper post-fight aftercare; an old man to Klaus’ little boy. He’s not quite found a balance between looking after both himself and the kid, he can admit. Klaus comes first, unquestionably and Diego isn’t sure that he even comes second, but addressing that will bring things to the surface that he’s not ready to face just yet. That’s why there’s an annoying voice at the back of his head that likes to butt in with hypocrite whenever Diego makes demands of Klaus regarding his wellbeing. Whilst Diego’s body is a temple, his mind is run-down with neglect: all wildly overgrown greenery and crumbling stonework. 

Still, he’s got some painkillers in his system and Klaus had helped him stick a heat pad to the small of his back after their shared shower, “I’ll survive, baby.”

That makes Klaus smile again, bright despite the sting of it when it tugs at the tear in his lip. He really has no right to look so beautiful at nine forty-five in the morning, littered with cuts and bruises as he is. Diego sort of wants to lick him clean of maple syrup. Right there, in their booth. He settles for wetting his own thumb and rubbing away a single drop of it from his chin, letting Klaus take it into his mouth once he’s done. 

“Tease,” He admonishes, with absolutely no real venom to speak of, “Going to have ‘Ego thinking naughty thoughts before he’s even finished his first coffee of the day.”

If anything, Klaus just looks shamelessly proud of such an achievement. _Which yeah, fair enough, the little menace._

“Before you distract me entirely, I had an idea I wanted to run by you. It came to me last night, but you were getting to be a sleepy bub and I wanted your input, okay?”

Klaus’ answering nod is curious, eyebrows lifting as his lips purse around his straw again (Diego is not jealous of a straw). Somewhat distracted by the serious tone of Diego’s voice, he blows rather than sucks, and the pink milk erupts into bubbles. _Too fucking cute_ , Diego muses with an absolute indulgence he’s genuinely never known for anyone but his brother. Anyone else and he’d have definitely told them to cut that shit out. His lenience for Klaus can only be a primal thing, hardwired since they were children and Diego had hovered quietly at the very edges to secretly admire the ways in which Klaus had insisted on being everything that their father abhorred. 

(Hysterical Number Four, all cherry lipgloss, too wet, hiccoughing tears soured with whiskey stolen from behind Reginald’s mahogany bar and a bejewelled middle finger raised to curfew. Hysterical Number Four, drunkenly clambering through Diego’s window rather than his own, just about kicking off his shoes before edging into the narrow bed beside his brother, rubbing sooty makeup onto Diego’s pyjama shirt.)

“You’re especially adorable this morning, have I mentioned that?” Diego has to ask, reaching out to fold his own thick fingers around Klaus’ skinny wrist, thumbing against the familiar jut of the bone, “Sweetest little boy I ever knew.” He’ll never tire of the way this iteration of Klaus eagerly soaks up his praises like a kitten basking beneath sun rays. He hopes that they sink deep enough to linger when Klaus needs a reminder of his worth when he’s bigger and more broken. 

“Now, for my idea— how would you feel about a reward chart? I was thinking, a sticker for every sober day you manage, hmm? Maybe something visual would help you see how far you’ve come, how capable you actually are.” _How capable I know you are._

It might just be the changing position of the clouds beyond the diner’s window but suddenly Klaus is aglow. He lights right up like the fourth of July—

“Oh! Yeah! C-Can I choose the stickers, ‘Ego?”

(Christ, would it have only taken stickers when he was barely fifteen and already au fait with tourniquets and the tapping out of air bubbles? Can Five get them back there so that they can at least give it a go?) 

“Hmm, if I can get a kiss, yes,” Diego agrees, having to chuckle at how eagerly the other flings himself over the table to press his mouth to his big brothers, hands scrabbling at his shoulders for balance as their dishes clink precariously. The gash through his lip still tastes a touch metallic but his tongue is pure strawberries and cream. Fucking off his own self-imposed limited PDA rule, Diego takes some time sucking at it.

———

Until they pass through the door of the toy store, Diego’s sure that he’s already heard every variation of Klaus’ gasp (hurt, horny, high), but the sweetest, breathiest exclamation of absolute wonder that slips from his boy’s parted lips as he gazes up at the endless rows of multicoloured plastic and plush is brand new. Oh yeah, Diego remembers offhandedly, _little boy, big toy store— too precious_. Has Klaus ever even been inside one before? Reginald certainly never valued playtime, any toys they did have tended to be merchandise sent over for their evaluation.

“It’s super cool huh, baby?” He murmurs, low so that only Klaus will hear, one wide palm guiding him at his hip, “Do you think you can help ‘Ego find the craft aisle?” He points to the signs suspended from the ceiling, “See, that one says _action figures_ , and the one just across from it says _dolls_ , but can you see _arts and crafts_ anywhere?”

Klaus vibrates under Diego’s touch, a constant current of excitable electricity pulsing through him. It has Diego further considering the many layers this headspace must have for the other, and then he wants to grab a cart and just start tossing in anything Klaus’ awed gaze lingers on for more than a millisecond: the Barbies in ball gowns and remote-controlled Batmobiles, more bunnies like Bowie, tubs of glitter play-doh and big boxes of sparkling beads. 

As a family, they’ve never really _done_ birthdays or holidays, but Diego thinks he may have to start— make an exception for little Klaus at least, who so deserves a bit of spoiling.

 _God_ , but he can perfectly picture Klaus sitting cross-legged on a furry rug in the boiler room. Pyjama-clad and comfy, his tongue peeking from between his lips as he carefully threads neon stars and plastic jewels onto loops of elastic. A bowl of cheddar goldfish and a sippy cup of juice at his side, Diego up in a chair, paperback bent open in his hands but his attention entirely taken up by Klaus. (Isn’t it always, these days?)

Honestly, Diego really wants cheerful friendship bracelets he can slide onto his wrists, ones made especially by his little boy. He’ll let the pinks and greens pop against his black wardrobe and scowl indignantly whenever anyone questions them. 

“Crafts!” Klaus announces, quite literally pulling Diego from his daydream as he links their hands and yanks the other man towards the art supplies aisle. 

“Oh! Well spotted, clever boy.”

“Clever boy,” Klaus mimics in a whisper, words murmured down towards his own boots, “Klaus is a clever boy for ‘Ego? Be good, get stickers?”

“Be good, get stickers,” Diego confirms as he wraps his arms around Klaus’ shoulders to easily hug him back against his chest, pressing a chaste kiss to his exposed collar bone as he does, “Err, I didn’t realise there’d be quite so many to choose from though. Which ones are catching your eye, kiddo?”

Hundreds may be an exaggeration, but Klaus isn’t all that great at exacts, even outside of his younger headspace, so that’s the conclusion he comes to as his big eyes flit all over all of his options. _Too many_ is his worry as he ducks to nose against the bend of Diego’s elbow. His toes turn in towards one another and a quiet whine escapes him; he is overwhelmed, but thankfully Diego already knows.

“Choose five,” He instructs, and then, helpfully holding up one hand to show his four fingers and thumb, he begins to list different types. Each time he does he drops a finger until he’s mentioned five varieties, finding himself entirely absorbed in his parental role. Their area of the store is empty enough that no one notices or stares at the overdressed man who’s tucked in bashfully against his broad-shouldered boyfriend— even as Diego gives Klaus’ tummy a quick tickle. They’re free to indulge all of their little (heh) whims without bothering anyone else.

Klaus still dithers, but Diego’s patience rolls between the pair of them in soothing waves, and soon enough he has five packets clutched in his clammy hand: holographic unicorns, _obviously_ , super cool dinosaurs in shades and snapbacks, rainbow hearts, cupcakes and then the type used in schools (that they were never allowed to attend), all _good job!_ and _fantastic effort!_ (of course, Diego’s old and boring, so they’re his favourites). 

“There are lots and lots,” Klaus murmurs as he fans all of the stickers out in order to study their details.

“Lots and lots,” Diego echoes, “you’re right because I know that you’ll need them all, my little star. Now, black card and silver sharpies sound like a plan, right? For the chart itself?”

Black card and silver sharpies are indeed a plan, so with all of their supplies successfully picked out, Diego starts towards the check-out with Klaus trailing behind him like a duckling (his hair just as fluffy). For most of the way there, at least— there’s a moment when Diego turns to ask for the stickers so that he can pay when he realises that he’s gone and left Klaus behind. The other dawdling at least half an aisle back and unexpectedly enamoured by something in the _outdoor fun_ section; the tip of his index finger between his lips, head cocked in interest.

Diego calls out to him, “Klaus? What are you looking at? You wanna bring it to the check out with the stickers?” 

“I—, um, no, it’s…” Klaus begins, though even as he speaks around his finger he’s stepping closer to the shelf, peering in at whatever it is that’s grabbed his attention, “Um.”

“It’s fine, whatever it is, bring it with you. Come on, move your tush.” 

If pressed, Diego probably couldn’t have said _what_ he’d expected Klaus to come scurrying over with, but it certainly would not have been a white and lilac tie-dye bucket and spade set. It’s kind of cool, though— probably even cooler if you’re Klaus. The bucket is an actual castle, complete with tiny turrets, and there are even moulds for shaping sea shells out of damp sand. 

“It’s super silly,” Klaus says dismissively, making a show of rolling his eyes at himself before his brother can— and _no thanks, no self-deprecation today_ , Diego decides, _that just won’t do_ —

“Are you joking? Have you _seen_ the shells? It’s awesome, kiddo! And hel-heck, we could do with getting outside a bit more, don’t you think? If you want them, they’re yours. We’ll get ourselves to the coast with them, eh, find some of that fabled fresh air people talk about?”

It’s incredibly quick thinking on Diego’s behalf, intended to reassure Klaus, but it’s also… Well, it’s too true, Diego realises as he hears his own words leaving him. Both of them are in the habit of being near enough nocturnal for a good percentage of the time. They keep what Allison would refer to as _unsociable hours_ and tend to pass them holed up in either Diego’s basement or Klaus’ mansion bedroom. Admittedly, they’re stuck in a rut, but it’s become their rut, something else for them to share. Familiarity is such an easy comfort, but it can’t be too healthy for either of them. 

_Never mind the codependency, the least we could do is be codependent in the goddamn sunshine before fucking rickets sets in._

“Seriously, I’ll buy you the princess bucket and spade as a promise. When we’re next able to, we’re driving to the beach, kiddo. Give it and your stickers here.”

———

As the fates would have it, a solid few weeks of downpours follow Diego’s _hey, what if we went outdoors occasionally?_ epiphany. For the entire time, the bucket stays bundled in its flimsy netted bag, though it does move about the boiler room every so often. Usually, after Klaus has slipped down and appeared beside Diego with it clutched to his chest. _We go today?_ asked again and again, the little boy ever hopeful. Diego is a tough guy, but his heart breaks a little more every time he has to shake his head with a regretful _aw no, baby, not when it’s raining so heavily still_.

———

The day the weather finally lets up, Diego wakes to a Klaus-like weight balanced precariously on his bare belly and the sharp plastic handle of a spade wedged against his hip.

“We go today?” The weight wonders aloud before Diego’s even managed to peel his eyes open, “‘Ego, _‘Ego_ , did you know? I looked and the sun is out! So, we can go to the beach today, yes?”

To begin with, Diego can only grunt a _hmmm?_ as he blindly reaches out to pet at the other man’s soft, warm side, grinning when Klaus squirms happily at his clumsy but doting touch. He sort of adores when his brother wakes up small and eager for the day ahead. It had taken Klaus a while to feel comfortable showing when he had, convinced that Diego wouldn’t want him that way without more prior communication, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Little Klaus wakes up like he actually wants to, adult Klaus often tends to come to as though yet another sunrise is, if not quite a curse, something of an inconvenience. Diego gets the latter sentiment, really he does, and so Klaus bouncing on the mattress and squealing at morning cartoons is a tonic for them both. 

“Is that right, little one? The sun’s finally reappeared?”

“Yep, it’s right! The rain is all finished. Please, can we go, please?”

“I’m going to go with yes, babe, but not without one more quick question— what time is it right now?”

 _Oh_. Klaus deflates slightly, squints at the digital clock on the bedside table, “Six…six four-fourteen?”

_Christ, it’s a good job he’s cute._

“Okay, right, well I think we need to be slightly more well rested for our coastal adventure. Bucket down on the floor and put your paci back in, please. Give ‘Ego another hour.” _At the very least._

“So I wake you up at seven fourteen?” Klaus clarifies, words now a little slurred around his pacifier ( _yeah yeah_ , Diego’s into _that_ too, like a lot).

“ _Mmmph_ , yeah, s’pose,” He grumbles into his pillow as he melts back into his own indentation in the mattress with Klaus stretching over him like a cat and making the occasional suckling sounds against his ear. 

“‘Ego?” He mumbles near enough legibly, once he’s settled himself back down by toying drowsily with Diego’s fingers, “Thanks. I’m so, so ‘cited.”

_Fuck_ , Diego thinks right before he drops off, _is their local beach like the toy store all over again, somewhere he’s not been before? This poor kid_. 

———

As it turns out, yeah, it is. Which isn’t that surprising, considering their distinctly lacking upbringing and Klaus’ rollercoaster existence since they’d aged out of Reginald’s fun-forbidding schedule…

It is still sad, though. A reminder of the innumerable things Klaus has never had before, no matter how deserving he was of them, how easy they’d have been to make happen. Minus gas, a trip to the coast costs nothing. It’s fucking unfair. 

So much so that Diego’s dark eyes actually brim with tears when they finally reach the steep road that leads down to the coast and Klaus cranes his whole body forward to spy the sea through the windshield; blue enough to blend seamlessly up through the horizon and into the cloudless sky, vast enough to steal Klaus’ next breath from him. None of the tears slip but Diego shivers from the nape of his neck, flexes frustrated fingers at the wheel. 

The both of them, the sea and his Klaus, are so fucking pure. Fathoms deeper than they seem when the sun flickers over their pretty surface ripples. 

“I want to go splash in it!” He, the boy so like the sea, announces in a hurried gasp, reaching across to smack excitedly at Diego’s forearm, “Can I? Please?”

“Remember baby, kind hands,” Diego says, and then, “but of course you can, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We need to find a spot for our blanket first though, and I need to put on your sunscreen, okay?”

———

“‘Ego, I’m sinking!” Klaus crows gleefully as they traipse from the car— he is practically skipping, so it’s no wonder really that the sand is swallowing his Converse as it shifts beneath them. It’s as though when faced with an abundance of open space, he has to fill it— zigzagging as he goes. It makes for quite a sight; with his sheer black blouse billowing behind him like wings, he’s a baby bat unaccustomed to daylight.

“I see that! Careful now! Don’t lose Bowie!” Diego calls back to him from where he’s following behind at a much more sedate pace. 

Klaus just has the rabbit’s ears caught in his fist, whereas Diego is laden down with a cool bag bursting with their hastily purchased picnic, a rolled up tartan blanket and a backpack of other essentials (including the bucket and spade, obviously). Klaus definitely got the easier end of the deal, but it’s cool since he’s just a kid right now. 

(Like, Diego will totally get his own back. At some point. When it’s more appropriate.)

“Can you remember where we’re going little one, do you remember what it was I told you to head towards?”

“Erm!” Out of nowhere, Klaus attempts a complicated spin and almost goes flying, beaming over at Diego as he does, all wild hair backlit by the brilliant sun, a flash of tongue and teeth, “By the cave! With the rock pools!” 

“The cave it is, well done for remembering. Do you need to hold my hand or can you walk down there without breaking anything important?”

Diego’s only joking really, the sand is soft enough that Klaus shouldn’t do himself any real damage if he falls, but by way of answering the other bounds over to him like an excitable, long-legged Labrador to eagerly tuck his free hand into his brother’s. Diego can’t hide that he’s pleased. Touching, physically tethering themselves to one another is nice. Being close enough that he is able to drop a kiss to the top of Klaus’ hair and inhale some of his coconut shampoo is even better, especially when the scent of it mingles with the tang of brine on the balmy breeze. 

They’ve been there all of three minutes and Diego’s decided that yes, Klaus is meant for the beach— his little clumsy water nymph, or perhaps water nymph-baby bat-puppy hybrid? Whatever he is, Diego adores it, how he’s like a dream. 

To show him, he kisses Klaus’ hair again and then slows them to a stop so that he can nudge a kiss against his slightly parted lips, too. It’s not much more than a bumping together of their mouths, the swipe of their tongues together brief and sweet, but it’s enough for right then. Their lips hover millimetres apart and they breathe the same fresh, fresh air, knowing that they have time for more.

After it, Klaus sways slightly in place and gazes at Diego through the black sweep of his lashes, quieter than he’d been since he’d woken for the second time at seven sixteen exactly. He looks new. Bathed in natural light, his sea glass eyes are crystalline and somehow even more beautiful. Less haunted. Diego had definitely been correct in thinking this would be good for him, for them. They study one another, uncovering the minute mysteries that only reveal themselves under the spell of the sun. 

It’s very nearly silent, until Klaus whispers, “I love you, ‘Ego,” with his gentle hand coming up so that his fingertips can trace the scar cutting through Diego’s brow, the bow of his full lips, the strong line of his jaw. 

It’s the first time, Diego’s sure, that either of them has said it aloud, confessed it in so many words. Or just three words, really.

_Jesus actual Christ._

They’re stood so close that Diego can see Klaus’ lashes twitching and the almost-invisible scar on his lip that’s a pale petal pink; he can feel the warmth radiating off of him where the sun’s already baked into his olive skin and the coconut scent of his hair lingers between them. It’s, all of it together along with Klaus’ timid declaration of love, dizzying.

Diego knows he’s been overthinking as he catches the telltale crease of Klaus’ brows drawing together, the one that means the other boy is working towards upsetting himself. When Klaus brings Bowie up so that he can hide his unguarded expression of worry behind the plush belly of the toy, Diego could kick himself. Sometimes, he is as much of an idiot as Luther claims. Or as Luther himself, _God fucking forbid_.

“Oh hey Bowie,” He murmurs, hoping that the drumming of his own pulse isn’t weirdly audible, “Now, whilst your company is always a pleasure, I had something I needed to say to Klaus, is he around here anywhere?”

Without needing any more encouragement, Klaus lets his hand drop again so that the bunny dangles down by his legs. Revealed, his expression is unchanged— it remains all open and earnest and ever so slightly crumpled in on itself, “Mhmm. Here I am.”

_Oh yeah, there he most certainly is._

So Diego bites the bullet, crushes it between his back molars— “You know, I love you too, Klaus. I really, really do. I think I always have.”

Anti-climatically, Klaus does not seem as surprised by this revelation as Diego had been, but Diego wonders if he will be later, once he’s back in his bigger headspace and mulling the moment over. That little Klaus accepts love much more easily is something Diego had learned early on in their relationship, even though adult Klaus clearly craved it just as much. Klaus as he is there and then trusts Diego implicitly, in a way that only innocence could really allow for. Diego’s primary instinct is to keep that safe. The special something residing inside of Klaus that allows him to simply nod quite happily ( _I know ‘Ego, you’re my big brother aren’t you?_ ), wet his lips before kissing Diego again, and then continue to impatiently lead the way down to the cave. 

(Maybe the instinct was as old as them, predating what they’d done in the attic by decades.)

Diego, of course, follows with his heart still beating an urgent tattoo against his ribs.

———

It’s not much, but it is very much theirs— the plaid blanket laid over the pale sand at the mouth of the cave, the spill of their thrown-together picnic over it, pastries and pre-prepared fruits and a four-pack of glass bottles of Diet Coke (because Klaus had _pleaded_ with the pout Diego was weakest for, near enough climbing into the store’s refrigerator). It’s all in golds and reds, looking as though it had been styled intentionally— especially once Klaus has sprawled himself across it like Lana Del _goddamn_ Rey, too coquettish for his own good in his gauzy blouse that leaves very little to the imagination. Diego can see his nipples, his ink, his happy trail disappearing into the waistband of his embroidered denim shorts.

His brain short circuits before he remembers his duties. 

“C’mere, baby boy,” He demands, beckoning with one hand as the thumb of the other pops open the sunscreen, “Don’t want you to get burned, do we? Can’t have pretty little things like you peeling away to the bone.”

(The snort in Klaus’ laugh might as well be a chorus of angels to Diego’s ears and yes, he’s nauseated by himself so that nobody else need be.) 

The bridge of Klaus’ nose is already flushed and Diego admires it as the other crawls across to him to settle himself between his thighs, right where he belongs. Diego’s lap, Klaus’ throne. Really, it should be too much, another body atop his when Diego’s tank is already sticking to his back, but it’s the best sort of burn where their bare skin touches; together they sizzle, spark and hiss. Diego would blister for Klaus if that’s what it took to have him squirming and giggling in his lap. 

The boy’s as tempting as ice cream cone, and Diego has to treat himself to a taste of the sweat from below Klaus’ ear before he gets to rubbing the sun cream all over his exposed skin: his long legs and his delicate collarbones, the back of his neck were his curls are coiled more tightly and glossed with perspiration. As always, Klaus is pliant and well behaved under Diego’s calloused hands, letting his brother move him here and there until he’s sure he’s protected everywhere that could feasibly catch the sun. Diego’s so thorough because he cares, of course, but it would be dishonest of him not to admit that he struggles to stop himself once he starts to touch. 

(He also obligingly pumps a measure of the cream into Klaus’ palm, so that his little brother can return the favour and haphazardly smear it over Diego’s shins. Helping like a big boy.) 

“Little one, do you know what you do to me?” Diego asks with a shake of his head before he’s tapping Klaus’ butt, “Up up, though, you want to go play?”

“Yeah! Oh! Shoes off, please ‘Ego?” 

“You can’t do that yourself, sugar?” Diego asks, not as a reprimand, but because he definitely enjoys getting the other to vocalise his neediness. Sometimes it’s sexual, sometimes it fulfils a want Diego hasn’t figured out the vocabulary for yet (which is actually a fairly solid summary for their entire relationship). 

“Nope, need ‘Ego’s help to do it,” Klaus insists, before he bounces up and turns towards Diego, pigeon-toed and too lovely in his expectation that Diego will acquiesce to his request. He can be such a brat, but somehow so sweet about it— which is to say, he has his brother wrapped around his pinky twice over. 

With a playfully put upon sigh, Diego gets to unpicking the knots of Klaus’ ratty laces and eases his sneakers all the way off for him, too. Klaus’ toes wiggle as soon as they’ve been freed, feeling for the slipping of the sand beneath the blanket. Diego’s not into feet generally, but Klaus’ toenails are painted indigo with holographic sparkles and thus, they’re just as cute as the rest of him. He gives them their own layer of sunblock and a quick tickle before Klaus is off to find crabs in one of the pools, grabbing for Bowie again as he goes about his important business. 

Luckily, they’re far enough away from the main crowd for it not to matter when Klaus squats down and eagerly explains everything that he discovers in the little pool to his stuffed toy. He’s so animated and unbidden by outside expectations in his fun, making up for too many lost years. Though Diego doesn’t want to interfere right away, he does prop himself up on a rock to observe, entirely enraptured as Klaus dips forward to swish his hand through the clear water, petting cautiously at tendrils of seaweed and poking about in the silty sand in search of hidden sea life. Diego’s never really spent much time with ‘real kids’, but nothing about Klaus suggests he’s performing a role. No, his curiosity is genuine, gorgeously so. 

_My little boy, mine mine mine_ , Diego tells himself before he has to give in and cross the blanket to kneel behind Klaus, chin hooking over his shoulder—

“What have you found here, baby boy? You’ll grow up to be an oceanographer.”

“Oceanographer,” Klaus hums, the word new and clumsy on his tongue. 

Diego melts, “Aren’t you just so clever? Do you want ‘Ego to show you how to build sandcastles now?”

Despite the sunblock Diego had insisted on, Klaus’ cheeks are ruddy, radiating heat and his skin feels a tad too tight when it pulls as he smiles.

———

When Klaus sits with his legs criss-crossed, his rose embroidered daisy dukes ride even further up his toned thighs. That’s where Diego’s gaze lands, even as he’s scooping sand, wetted with rock pool water, into the bucket for the boy, showing him how to pack it tightly into the turrets. Diego is far too easily distracted by flesh he could grab at, mark with half moons and thumbs prints. Yeah, frayed hems nestling against soft cocks are a weakness of his, it would seem. He wants to flick at the denim threads, tickle Klaus until he’s grinding wantonly into the sand.

His stomach does acrobatics at the mere thought of it. 

Yet somehow, he makes himself wait and just watch. There’s something glorious in how entirely unaware Klaus is of the effect he’s having on Diego (because he’s definitely starting to chub up), how he’s not putting any effort into being tantalising but instead focusing on skimming excess sand from the lip of his bucket. He has his priorities and Diego’s man enough to come second to a sand castle for a minute or two. 

“Like this, ‘Ego?” Klaus asks, and though his thighs spread a little wider, his big eyes betray nothing when they find Diego’s— “I flip it over now, and tap tap?”

Diego tastes _I could flip you over and tap your bottom, baby_ on the tip of his tongue, but he simply smiles until it’s slid back down his throat, as cloying as melted chocolate, “Yeah! You’re doing such a good job!”

He must have been craving the praise because as soon as he gets it Klaus beams as bright as the orb of the sun sitting heavy in the sky. It’s blinding. He’s a vision, gleaming with sweat and pride, and it only intensifies when he eases his bucket up to unveil a perfectly formed castle with its four turrets standing tall. A cluster of shells follow, both the sort tipped from moulds and the real pearlescent ones Klaus has gathered from the bed of the rock pool. . 

Diego rewards him with a round of applause, “Little one! Look at what you’ve made! It’s beautiful.”

It is, is the thing. Diego’s praise isn’t empty. The castle is perfectly formed and the shards of shell dotted around it catch the sun like silver-pink salmon scales. Klaus has a gift for prettifying things— you only have to look him over to see that.

“I did it!” Klaus shouts, startling a nearby gull, and then he’s scrambling around the castle, careful not to knock it, so that he can fling himself at Diego for a celebratory cuddle, smacking kisses to both his cheeks as he does, “You saw?”

“I saw,” Diego nods, unable to keep himself from getting both of his big hands under Klaus’ ass, groping lazily at denim and toasty, sand-speckled skin.

“Yeah, ‘Ego? Even though you were mostly staring at my naughty bits?” 

He has absolutely no right sounding so innocent asking _that_ — Diego is in danger of creaming his pants like an inexperienced teenager.

 _Good grief_. “You’d know all about naughty, huh?” He smirks, trying not to betray how weak he is for the kid perched in his lap, even with his semi brushing against Klaus’ belly, “Wanna take this to the sea, my merbaby?” 

Klaus’ head tilts, “What’s _this_ , ‘Ego?”

“What would you like it to be, little boy?”

His lip sucked beneath his top teeth, Klaus’ eyes glitter mischievously, “More kisses? The kind with tongue?”

———

That tongues that tangle in sea spray taste mineral sharp, and that endless water is freedom in the way that contained water is a punishment, are two things which Diego discovers simultaneously whilst thigh deep in the surf with Klaus flush to him. Miles and miles of cerulean lay before them, peaking waves and almost-still drifts, and Klaus is just as liquid as he leans into Diego to settle his slighter contours against more substantial muscle. Together, they rock along with the fluctuating flow of the tide with their toes digging deep into the silty sand so that they stay upright. Diego holds Klaus extra tight because he couldn’t bare if he drifted out to God knows where.

To the edge of the map where the monsters lurk. 

He probably wouldn’t, but it’s not a risk worth taking. Now that Diego has Klaus, he’d rather not lose him. It’s not just selfish, really it isn’t, it’s protective too; Diego isn’t sure he trusts anyone, anything else, with his baby just yet. He doesn’t fully trust himself still, but he’s getting there. 

He knew to bring Klaus to the beach because he’d made it three decades without ever having been. 

Klaus deserves good things, effortless, lovely things; sandcastles and soda in glass bottles, hot palms smoothing over sun-dappled shoulders and kisses that last until his lips tingle. Raw from the salt and the want. Throughout the weeks of thunderstorms, whenever Diego had eyed the patiently waiting bucket and spade, he’d had imagined Klaus’ nimble hands collecting special shells and polished pebbles, his painted toes kicking up ankle-licking waves, sand in the creases of his pointed elbows. The real thing is even better; the Klaus crushed tight to his chest is vivid with life, luminous. His colours are more saturated than they seem everywhere else.

“‘Ego?” Klaus speaks into his sternum, having mouthed a sloppy trail from Diego’s lips, over his chin, his bobbing Adam’s apple, drawing goosebumps up all over Diego’s burnished chest, “I think people must have drowned here, surely? B-but you know, when you’re kissing me, holding me, I can’t see them. I can’t see them, Diego. You’re like, a buffer, I think?”

_Oh. Wow. Okay._

“That’s good to hear, baby boy. You know your ‘Ego is always here for you, don’t you? To look after you and keep you safe.”

(Maybe they could camp out in the cave indefinitely, to wake with the sunshine, have it heal them— suffused through Klaus’ bones, his untidy curls and the ripe curve of his real smile.) 

Mid-way through their next kiss, one somehow deeper and more demanding than any that had come before it, Diego scoops Klaus right up from the water. It sends up a diamond dust splash in the boy’s wake, and then he’s got him a princess hold and as he wades back up to the shore, the pair of them look like something from a movie. Were it Allison and Luther in their position, Diego would scoff so hard he’d choke himself. It’s _them_ though, so he presses bashful smiles into Klaus' neck and feels something akin to thrill burst like bitten berries in his belly. 

———

Back up on their blanket, Klaus settles himself in Diego’s lap ( _I belong here, don’t let anyone else sit here, ‘kay?_ ) and tips his head against Diego’s shoulder to suck cubes of watermelon and halved strawberries from his calloused fingers, his eyes closing as he savours the sour-sweet spread of them over his tongue. In return, he offers Diego flakes of buttery croissant, squeaks when the other’s nibbles catch his skin.

“Teeth, ‘Ego,” He complains, rather half-heartedly, and then Diego gets him laughing by baring his canines and snapping like a beast, chasing Klaus’ hand as he whips it behind his back. The laugh is loud, but it’s whining, too. Overtired, Diego thinks. Beads of juice glisten in the dip between Klaus’ lower lip and his chin. Diego licks them up as Klaus’ chuckle becomes a breathy yawn. _Long day, too much sun, sleepy little boy_.

(It's all ruby red and flaxen gold, a humid haze vignetting them. Klaus is so soft inside of it.)

“Do you want to—?” Diego inclines his head in the direction of his parked car and Klaus’ frustrated pout is fucking delicious—

“No! No, not yet, I still want.”

“What do you want, my love?”

“Just _want_ ,” Klaus whines, kitten curling closer to Diego and nuzzling up under his earlobe at the citrus musk of his perspiration, “You, I think, but soda too, maybe. Please.”

“You’re being a baby, huh?” Diego teases, but as he speaks he thumbs open the buttons of Klaus damp blouse so that he can get his hand to his tummy, spread his fingers and squeeze his side as a comfort, “Too little to use your words. Shall Diego show you what you need, are you too tired to learn something new?”

That definitely stirs Klaus’ interest. He’s so easy, blinking himself out of his spell of lethargy. “Mmm?” He murmurs, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his nose (leaving a dusting of sand in its wake) and sitting up straighter, “I-I can learn, I’m your clever boy.”

“True, you are my ridiculously cute and clever boy. Tell me, have you had to take lessons in being as cute as you are?”

“Oh no no, ‘Ego, Little boys just _are_ cute, that’s how we’re made.”

Well, Diego can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t. He uses his mouth for more important things, like capturing Klaus’ in another searing kiss. And _God_ , Klaus responds so eagerly for him, falling forwards fast— like a lurch at an unexpected stoplight. Diego licks deep for the lush taste of fruit on him; uses one hand to pry Klaus’ jaw open just a little further and his other to guide his sensational thighs around his waist. So that they’re sat cock-to-cock. _Fucking finally_. 

“Oh, if only you knew how much I’ve been waiting for this, baby boy,” He whisper-nips at the corner of Klaus’ lips, nose pressed to the fuchsia glow of his cheek, “I’ve been daydreaming of your adorable little dick since you sat across from me building your castles— tempting me in your tiny flowery shorts,” He slips a thumb beneath the frayed hem of said shorts, nail grazing his boy’s briefs, “‘Ego’s dick needs your dick. Needs your touch, too. Can you give those to me?”

“H-how?” Little Klaus asks, all tender naivety where adult Klaus would simply smirk, _and how do you want me, brother mine?_

“You’re going to wrap your hands around the both of us, okay?”

———

Diego isn’t an idiot. Or well, no, there’s definitely been instances where that was considered debatable. But he’s not an idiot in that he knows that Klaus has ten times the experience he does; that Four had been finessing all sorts of specialities whilst Two was still figuring out to how to best get himself off during his brief morning shower. Diego is not an idiot in that he knows that that isn’t okay— that his brother was sexually abused by far too many people who were more than happy to take advantage of an underage addict, getting some rush from his celebrity status and his bruised but hopeful heart.

_They say The Séance can read dicks, see your future while he's swallowing your load. I heard he’ll summon your dearest dead relatives once you've stuffed a few fingers up him, or pass on a message for a line of coke._

When they play like this, Klaus gets to exist in some liminal space where that’s not quite the case. 

( _So, it’s healing…to pretend? Is pretend the word? It helps?_ Cathartic, I’d say. Rewriting what I can, maybe. There’s ink I’m stuck with, but maybe there’s some pencil sketching I can erase. You know, I’d have chosen you, even then. _Yeah, me?_ Yeah, you. But I wasn’t given choices, usually. _I’m sorry, Klaus._ Don’t be, we were all dealing with our own shit back then, hey? Was it similar for you, with Eudora? The exchanging of power? _You know me, I don’t tend to think these things over too deeply, but yeah, must have been? I let her use my knives on me._ )

———

“Are you okay, is this good? Words, baby, before we continue.”

The pad of Diego’s thumb glides up and down Klaus’ zipper, but beyond that, nothing. He knows, he’s sure he knows— Klaus’ quiet imploring speaks to him in his mother tongue, but he has to hear it as much as he reads it in the submissive slope of the other’s shoulders, the wanting slackness of his puffy lips, the blossoming swell of his erection.

Klaus exhales (and the breath Diego had been holding on to escapes him, too), his hips canting up from the blanket impatiently, “Yes, please. Green. I want it, ‘Ego, please.”

He looks as though he could cry and Diego doesn’t have it in him to make a weepy baby boy wait any longer than necessary. Not when he has such nice manners. 

“Okay, okay, I got you, see? Got you little one. Look at me, you’re just endlessly pretty aren’t you? You’re so pure, Klaus,” Diego drawls as he makes quick work of shucking down their shorts and underwear— Klaus’ first, and then his own, so that his dewy head skims Klaus’ blushing shaft as it springs free from his boxers.

They gasp in harmony and a wave crashes loudly behind them, as though it had been watching, sharing in their anticipation, timing itself. Diego’s never been a fan of poems, but he rather feels as though he’s been written into one. 

He has to fuck it up a bit. Smear the words on the paper.

“Spit on us, baby. I know spitting is naughty, but ‘Ego’s asking you to, so it’s allowed, okay?”

Klaus peers up at him with doubtful eyes, but his cheeks hollow as he gathers a thick wad of saliva on the flat of his tongue. Diego wouldn’t— not like some of his previous partners— trick him into a punishment. No, Diego takes care of him like nobody he’s ever known; more so than Mom even, because Diego’s love for him is organic and still growing in a way that hers just isn’t programmed to. Diego is like his Daddy, but Klaus doesn’t want to use that word, he much prefers the gentleness of _‘Ego_ , with its only connotations being towards them and this. 

If ‘Ego says spitting is allowed, it must be.

He waits until he has a good mouthful and then he drops his chin, drops his guilty gaze, and lets it slide from his mouth in ropes that pool over the tip of his own cock, of his big brother’s, too. It’s pretty, the filthy slick of it with their pearly precum. Klaus likes it rather a lot. He spits again with a sneaky grin, watches in fascination as it drips between them.

“Hey you, messy little boy, don’t be getting distracted now,” Diego chides, “remember what I said? Put your two hands around us, baby. I’m going to hold you, okay, to hide that we’re doing dirty things out here.”

In the midst of his arousal, Klaus had somehow forgotten that they were still camped out on the coast, but as soon as Diego reminds him he’s hyperaware again of the breeze catching on his sweat, cooling it, the coarse sand between his curling toes. The crowds of strangers milling about at the other end of the beach, paying no mind to him and Diego. Bowie’s about too, somewhere to their left, but that’s okay— he’s distracted by the rock pools again, not watching Klaus do big boy things with Diego.

Content to continue, Klaus lets his brother embrace him, folding in on himself so that Diego can tip their foreheads together. Diego is an anchor, Klaus tends to drift, though he’s less inclined to when he knows that staying put means holding on this. 

He hesitates for a heartbeat, and then wraps ten tentative fingers around their aligned dicks—

“‘Ego, I do it like this?”

“Y-yeah, little one, you do it just like that. Mhmm, and now I need you to start moving them, okay? Up and down, up and down, like ‘Ego does for you when it hurts in the morning.”

Despite his determination, Klaus doesn’t do a perfect job of it. There’s a charming cluelessness to the pull of his palms, his strokes clumsy, stuttering. Yet somehow, it’s no less satisfying. Not with the insistent rub of their spit-slicked dicks together (or how heartachingly earnest Klaus is), the match they spark in Diego’s gut that has him grinding upwards and scratching his blunt fingernails at the nape of Klaus’ neck, grazing through salt crystals. 

He’s got more girth than Klaus, but Klaus’ dick is just as goddamn pretty as the rest of him— Diego is obsessed with the curve of it, the flush deepening over the desperately leaking head (the same cherry red as his cheeks, as his pouty lip trapped between beneath his incisors). How sticky he gets.

Klaus lets out a flurry of frustrated grunts before he figures out how to flick his wrists as Diego does, how to press his trembling thumbs into their wet slits to illicit guttural moans. Its mathematical in its feigned inexperience, almost too carefully considered— one plus one is two, is everything.

Diego’s a dirty old man and he’s really fucking into the fantasy of it. He doesn’t want Klaus to have touched any dicks other than theirs. 

(And he hasn’t when he’s little.)

“Look at my precious boy,” He croons shakily, “doing so well. Does-does that feel good baby? Is it making your tummy fluttery?”

Klaus’ answering whine is a hair’s breadth away from being a sob. His lashes dip with the weight of tears.

“Yeah? Diego’s too, Diego’s too, baby. You’re doing so well, such a good boy for Diego. You’re close, aren’t you? So close for your big brother, so good for him.”

That does it, Diego’s self-assured understanding of Klaus; Diego knowing best. His orgasm spurts sea foam white between their pulsing abdomens, Diego’s name spilling from him in a rasping, desperate moan. He's all of a sudden far too hot (but shivering), too dizzy, too far gone. His hands still, but Diego doesn’t complain as he gently knocks them away. He lets his bone-tired (from the sun, the sea and the rest of it) boy lean in against his shoulder as he finishes himself off with a fierce tug or two more. 

Diego pants through his own spill, _well done baby boy, love you, love you so much_ , with his free arm cradling Klaus to him and his words a scorching smear at Klaus’ brow, _made Diego cum like the best little boy, well done. Shush shush now, I know, so much._

———

Klaus gets his Diet Coke once they’re back on the road, heading home. He’s drifting in some sated and sleepy dream-state and swallowed whole by the cuddly hoodie Diego had thought to pack. Nude beneath it, with his cheek resting against the half-open window so that the wind tousles his salt-and-sand-gritty curls— the scent of the sea chasing them.

Every so often, Diego’s concentration skips from the car ahead to his boy and they exchange sun-drunk smiles, Diego’s right hand kneading absently at Klaus’ thigh as his other guides the wheel. _I’m here little one, you doing okay?_ he asks silently, and Klaus thinks he might nod as sups at his soda, lazy in letting it go syrupy on his tongue. He eventually swallows when the classic rock station Diego has chosen plays _Go Your Own Way_ and he has to rouse himself enough to sing along— carelessly sending his words out onto the grey and green blur of the highway. Diego laughs, he thinks, fondly, but it sounds far away. Like a laugh that had happened in another time.

Everything around them feels like slow motion, like molasses, other than his lilac and white bucket rattling in the footwell beside his bare toes, filled to the brim with shells and pebbles.

They really are on their way to being okay, aren’t they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _here comes the sun doo doo doo, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right little darling, the smiles returning to the faces, little darling, it seems like years since it's been here..._


End file.
